


Snape's Will

by iulia_linnea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry discovers that Snape has made him a beneficiary of his will; it takes him a while to accept the Potions master's true gift to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beth H (bethbethbeth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/gifts).



> Posted on 2 August 2009 in response to the prompt of "transfigured" as a birthday gift for [bethbethbeth](http://bethbethbeth.livejournal.com/profile). Thank you, [accioslash](http://accioslash.livejournal.com/profile), [fodirteg](http://fodirteg.livejournal.com/profile), [jin_fenghuang](http://jin-fenghuang.livejournal.com/profile), [lalaith_niniel](http://lalaith-niniel.livejournal.com/profile), and [shiv5468](http://shiv5468.livejournal.com/profile), for beta'ing. Cross-posted to the snape_potter communities at [InsaneJournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/302551.html) and [LiveJournal](http://community.livejournal.com/snape_potter/2149402.html).

Harry awoke to the sound of someone breathing, someone who wasn't himself; it was a rasping sound, as if the person breathing were elderly, and it was coming from the other side of his curtains. He kept his own breathing steady and lay still, hoping that he hadn't alerted the stranger to his state of wakefulness as he quietly fumbled for his glasses with his free hand; his other hand was already clutching his wand.

"Mr Potter," an unfamiliar, rather hoarse voice said, "I assume that you're looking for these?"

A gnarled, slightly blurry but obviously goblin hand holding his glasses pushed through the bed curtains.

"Er, thanks," Harry replied. "Who are you, then?" 

"Forgive the intrusion, Mr Potter, but my client was most insistent that I come to you immediately upon the declaration of his death. I am Grapplethorpe of Gringotts."

" _Accio yesterday's clothes_!" 

"Yesterday was indeed a good one, for you defeated the Dark Lord, but perhaps a _fresh_ change of clothes would be in order?"

Harry said nothing as his clothes levitated through the curtains. He cast a laundering charm on them before dressing hastily, and then he swung his legs over the side of his dormitory bed. Pushing aside the curtains with one hand, his wand pointed in the direction from which Grapplethorpe's voice had come behind them, he peered out. 

An elderly goblin stood there; he was leaning upon a dark wooden cane and holding an attaché case in his free hand. His eyes were fixed upon Harry's, but they blinked rapidly as if he were fighting sleep. 

Harry cleared his throat, but Grapplethorpe didn't appear to notice. Loudly, Harry said, "Good morning."

"Hmm? Oh, Mr Potter, yes. To business," Grapplethorpe said, moving forward slowly to lay his attaché case on the bed and then proceeding to open it. "Now where is it? Ah, here," he murmured, turning to offer Harry a scroll, which he took after sheathing his wand. "What you are holding is the last will and testament of Severus Tobias Snape, formerly and among other things Headmaster of Hogwarts, now deceased."

Harry almost dropped the scroll. " _What_ did you say?"

"Did the battle affect your hearing?" 

Grapplethorpe didn't sound as though he were being sarcastic, but Harry was too astonished to know for certain. "I, er, I don't think so, no, but . . . but why are you here again?"

"You are named in Mr Snape's will. Perhaps you'd care to read the document?"

 _This is a weird bloody dream, isn't it?_ Harry thought, staring at Grapplethorpe.

"Mr Potter, you are not my only appointment for the day."

"Oh, er, sure," Harry said, unrolling the scroll. _Might as well figure out why I'm dreaming this, I suppose_.

The scroll read:

> _I, Severus Tobias Snape, residing at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, being of sound magic, mind, and body, and in the contemplation of the certainty of my death, do hereby declare this instrument to be my last will and testament._
> 
> _I. I hereby revoke all previous wills and codicils._
> 
> _II. I die upon the Surrender of my name, which I wish to be forgotten._

"What's a 'Surrendering'?"

"A bit of old-fashioned verbiage. Don't concern yourself with it."

"Er, all right," Harry replied, continuing to read.

> _III. I direct that the disposition of my remains be as follows: If at the time of my legal death there be anything left of my lifeless body or its parts, that flesh shall be, without ceremony or rite, burnt, and the ashes then scattered over the Black Lake at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

Section Three was certainly grim, but Harry supposed not particularly unreasonable, given whom Snape had served.

> _IIIa. I hereby direct that no posthumous awards be granted me; no remembrance services, ceremonies, or rites of any kind be held for me; and that no monuments of any kind be erected, placed, or painted in memory of me. For the sake of utmost clarity, I hereby attest that I do not wish posthumous recognition in any form, be it tangible or intangible. The executor of my estate, I charge with the task of destroying or disrupting any tangible or intangible attempts to commemorate my person or acts._

"Well, _that's_ unexpected. Can you really do that?"

"Do what, Mr Potter?"

"Keep people from honouring Snape?"

"My client was quite firm on that point."

"Yes, but he's a hero. People will want to honour him."

"Will they?"

Harry swallowed. _Perhaps not. Still . . . ._ "I think that he should be honoured."

"I'm sure that Mr Snape would have been touched by your concern," Grapplethorpe said, in a tone that clearly contradicted his words.

Harry shook his head and continued reading.

> _IV. My earthly effects, those found on my body, contained at Spinner's End, Trafford Park, Manchester, contained in my vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and contained in my quarters and office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which constitute my only legal possessions and are, therefore, mine to dispose of freely, with one exception, I direct shall be auctioned for profit by the executor of my estate; the auction's proceeds, I direct shall be contributed to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's Needy Pupils Fund, and I further direct that the funds from my contribution shall be used solely for the benefit of needy Slytherin students. The exception to the auction is a small oak chest, which may be found behind the panelling in my quarters at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; this chest, I bequeath to Harry James Potter, son of Lily Potter née Evans, wheresoever he is residing at the time of my death. This chest contains items that will be of particular interest to Mr Potter as they relate to his mother. Should Mr Potter fail to claim possession of the chest within one year of my death, I direct that it be Vanished by an agent contracted for this purpose by my executor. Whosoever retrieves the chest shall require the assistance of a curse-breaker; this includes Mr Potter, who will be arrogant enough to assume that such assistance is not required for him should he elect to collect his legacy._

Harry went from feeling pleased by Snape's unexpected generosity to his Slytherins, which really was nice, to feeling annoyed, but he said nothing of this to Grapplethorpe. Snape had been a right git to the end, it seemed.

> _IVa. My executor is to see to it that Mr Potter retains the services of a curse-breaker should he claim the chest. In the event that a person other than my executor or Mr Potter seeks to remove the chest, my executor is directed to allow whomever this fool might be to attempt removal of it on his or her own, and my executor is further directed to afford no remuneration from my estate to the family of that idiot upon the occasion of his or her inevitable death._

"Merlin, what a bastard he was!"

Grapplethorpe chuckled, but there was nothing pleasant about his laughter.

> _IVb. I purposefully make no provision for any relatives of mine, known or unknown to me, in this instrument._

"Did Snape have any relatives?" Harry asked, wondering if Section IVb was standard legalese.

"That is not for me to say."

 _As if you would, anyway_ , Harry thought, trying to reconcile Snape's heroism with his hatefulness.

"Do read on."

> _V. Grapplethorpe the Goblin of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, I name as the executor of my last will and testament. In the event that Grapplethorpe dies before me, I direct that his replacement be made my executor. All fees for this service have been rendered unto Grapplethorpe in the expectation that he make arrangements to see that they are transferred to any necessary succedaneum in the event of his death occurring before mine._
> 
> _I hereunder subscribe my handwritten and magical signatures on this, my last will and testament, on this, the third day of April, 1998, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and in the presence of the portraits of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore and Phineas Nigellus Black, who witnessed my writing of this will from beginning to end, as well as the subscription thereto of my signatures, and who have agreed to attest this will's authenticity should such attestation be required._
> 
> _Severus Tobias Snape_

Reading the contents of Snape's will only caused Harry's confusion to deepen. "Why would Snape have left me anything? He didn't like me. Hell, it seems as though the only person he ever liked was Mum."

"That is not for me—"

"To say, yeah, all right."

"Do you wish to claim the chest?"

"I . . . yeah, I suppose so, but—hey, wait. How do you know Snape's dead already? Did they find his body?" Harry asked, even though he knew that dreams didn't necessarily have to be logical. 

Shacklebolt had caught up with him on his way to bed and told Harry that he'd sent Aurors to collect Snape's body, but Harry found it difficult to believe that things could have been sorted so quickly, whether they'd found Snape or not.

"Whatever 'they' found, it was obviously enough to allow them enter a Certificate of Death into the Record, and once that fact was made known to me, I journeyed here to do my duty by Mr Snape."

"Well, how'd you get in here? I thought Professor McGonagall had ordered the grounds sealed to everyone who wasn't part of—"

"Mr Potter, I know that it is early, and I believe that the past few months have been trying ones for you, but perhaps you'd care to answer my question?"

"After you answer mine. How'd you get in here?"

"I am Grapplethorpe of Gringotts. Without exception, I go where my duty takes me."

It was obvious to Harry that he didn't know nearly enough about goblins as he should, even dream goblins. "But the grounds, they are sealed, right?"

"Not to me."

Grapplethorpe's gaze was unnervingly steady and certain. 

"So you're saying that you know another way into the castle?"

"I'm saying nothing of the sort, merely waiting for your answer. Will you accept Mr Snape's gift, or won't you?"

"If it's got anything to do with Mum, of course I will. Oh, and thank you," Harry answered, offering Grapplethorpe his hand to shake.

He didn't take it. 

"All right, then. I'll just go get the chest now, shall I?" Harry asked, moving towards his door, which was open.

At his approach, it closed.

"Reading comprehension shouldn't be something with which you have difficulty at your age," Grapplethorpe told him, and his tone, if not sarcastic, was definitely derisory.

"I'm sure I can manage it, but thanks, anyway."

"That is what Mr Snape expected you to believe, but you are mistaken. You will require the services of a curse-breaker to claim your chest, and I am charged to see to it that you have them."

"Fine, then," Harry replied, beginning to feel much more annoyed than confused, "I'll ask Bill."

"Do you speak of Mr William Arthur Weasley?"

"Yeah, he's a friend."

"He is also mourning his brother. It would be inappropriate to disturb him at such a time, but I have another curse-breaker who would be happy to provide you with his services."

A card floated from one of Grapplethorpe's pockets towards Harry then, and he snatched it from the air. "'Sebastian Sharpe. Curse-Breaker. Gringotts'," Harry read aloud.

"Reading, you do well enough. Have I your permission to engage Mr Sharpe on your behalf?"

"You're not going to let me out of here until I agree, are you?"

"Suffice it to say that I shall not allow you to claim your chest without a curse-breaker's assistance."

"Do you really think that you could get away with keeping me here against my will?"

"It would be an interesting experiment," Grapplethorpe replied, suddenly leaning against the bed.

It looked to Harry as if he were about to collapse, and even though he was irritated by the officious little man, he could tell that he was probably ill and too tired to be waiting on his answer. "Are you all right? Is there anything that I could do to—"

"Yes or no, Mr Potter."

"Yes, all right, I'll use Sharpe's services."

Instantly straightening and beginning to pack his attaché case, Grapplethorpe replied, "Very good, I shall have him contact you at once."

A knock fell upon the door then, and Harry went to it, incredibly irritated to realise how he'd been manipulated. Not surprised to discover that he could open it, he was startled to find a tall, fairly attractive man standing outside of it. He was wearing an old-fashioned suit and bowler hat, his red hair falling in a plait over one shoulder.

"That was fast," Harry said, turning back to address Grapplethorpe.

The goblin was gone.

"Was it?"

Harry turned his attention back to the curse-breaker, for he couldn't imagine who else the man might be. "Sharpe?"

"As a tack, Mr Potter. Now then, are you ready to proceed?"

"How did you—"

"No doubt," Sharpe said, as he walked off in the direction of the stairs, not bothering to see if Harry would follow him, which of course, Harry did, "Grapplethorpe's goblin efficiency is as alarming to you as it is to me, but there is no reason to delay, is there?"

Harry, continuing to follow Sharpe, pinched himself and winced. _Fuck, I'm_ not _dreaming_. "I suppose not. Just . . . how the hell did you get in here? And how did Grapplethorpe get _out_?"

"Goblin efficiency," Sharpe replied, stopping his progress as he and Harry emerged from Gryffindor Tower to look up and down the corridor. "Be good enough to follow me through here," he said, walking a few steps away from the Fat Lady's portrait to tap the stones in between two others and stepping through another door, one that Harry had never before seen, as the stones tucked themselves into the wall to create a portal.

It closed behind them, and torches flamed. 

"A secret passage."

"Not so secret, clearly."

"And you knew of it, how?" Harry asked, finding it unnerving to realise that Grapplethorpe must have used the same system of tunnels—and that there was a portal to them near his _dormitory_.

He was dreaming after all; he had to be. Fred and George had known all the tunnels in Hogwarts, hadn't they?

"I discovered it while a student here," Sharpe replied, walking forward only to stop again and open another portal, this one leading to a steep, winding stair. "My girl was a member of your house, and our circumstances required discretion."

"Circumstances? Were you a Slytherin?"

"House affiliations don't change, Mr Potter. I remain a Slytherin. Let us just say that my _boy_ was rather understanding, and also a Slytherin, one who knew all the old, forgotten battle passages. We put them to great use in my day."

"Which couldn't have been that long ago, I'm thinking," Harry replied, flushing at the thought of Sharpe's flexibility with regard to relationships. _Oh, yeah, definitely dreaming_.

"Are you flirting with me, Mr Potter?"

"What? No. You just don't look that old, is all."

Sharpe snorted. "Thank you," he said, stopping again. 

"Problem?" Harry asked, as Sharpe withdrew a phial from his pocket and drank from it. 

"No, none. Just thirsty. Now then, we're here. This is the not-so-secret entrance to the Head of House's quarters. I should like you to stand back, as I feel certain that Mr Snape was well aware of this portal."

"You think he warded it?"

"I believe that he placed curses upon it to ensure his privacy, as would any good Slytherin," Sharpe said, beginning to murmur something unintelligible.

The door swung open in a matter of moments.

"You're good," Harry said, attempting to enter the room ahead of Sharpe, who stopped him by placing a large, surprisingly warm, hand upon his chest. 

"I'm not so good as to prevent your death should you set off any further 'protections' by entering the room before me. Allow me to do my job, Mr Potter."

Sharpe's voice was fairly deep, if gravelly, and his citric, masculine scent, which Harry knew he had no business noticing, was intriguing. Harry stared at him, pressing into Sharpe's hand and cursing the fact that he was a redhead.

_At least he's not a Weasley._

"Mr Potter?"

Remembering himself, Harry pulled back and swallowed, completely mortified by his behaviour and the turn of his thoughts. "Oh, er, sure."

Sharpe's mouth twitched. "I understand your . . . curiosity, but caution is called for here." With that, he turned back to his task.

Harry's embarrassment gave way to fascination as he watched Sharpe work. There were several apparently tricky wards to be removed before he deemed it safe for Harry to enter Snape's quarters, and it was . . . interesting to watch him crawl forward while holding a strange bit of clockwork in one hand—interesting for the most part because it gave Harry a clear view of the man's arse, which was rather nice, indeed. 

_If this were a good dream, he'd be naked, and perhaps Ginny'd be on the bed, also naked_.

Harry bit his lower lip, trying to keep the dream from changing. He really was curious about the chest. Mercifully, it wasn't long before Sharpe signalled to him to enter the room, and Harry forgot the erotic tenor of his thoughts as he looked about at the surprisingly comfortable-looking and homey furnishings. 

"Wow."

"Is there a problem, Mr Potter?"

"No, but everything seems . . . normal."

"What were you expecting? Torture devices?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "This was _Snape's_ room. Torture devices were the least of what I was expecting."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Er, perhaps we'd better just get on with it."

"As you like."

Sharpe placed his clockwork device back into his pocket, removed his hat, and then knelt on Snape's bed in front of the headboard. He drew his wand and murmured something, and a shimmering cloud of iridescent, rainbow-coloured particles issued from his wand and drained into a crack in the panelling that Harry wouldn't have known was there had he not read Snape's will. 

"What are you doing?"

"Performing a diagnostic spell. Don't speak."

The sound of chimes began to emanate from behind the panelling, a light, pleasant sound which quickly turned strident. As the pitch grew sharper, a thick black cloud of smoke began pouring out of the cracks, defining a rectangular section of wood that began to pucker. Sharpe moved off the bed and strode towards Harry, one arm raised, his hand waving him towards the secret entrance.

"We'll need to step out for a moment," Sharpe said, and how he could sound so calm, Harry didn't know.

His head felt as though it might split from the dreadful tone.

Just as they stepped over the threshold and into the passageway beyond, the sound became more a shriek than anything else, and Sharpe pulled Harry to one side of the entrance, casting a shielding charm. Shards of wood bounced off it as the panelling apparently exploded, and a sickening stench rolled out in waves to curl around Sharpe's shield.

"Don't breathe deeply. In fact, cast a Bubble-Head Charm."

Harry and Sharpe cast their Bubble-Heads at the same time, which was, it turned out, a mere heartbeat's span of time before another explosion sounded from the room. It was bigger than the previous one had been.

"Someone's got to have heard that!"

"No, I think not. I did nothing to disable the Imperturbables."

"Oh. All right." Harry waved a hand in front of his face; he couldn't see for all the smoke. "Does anyone know you're here?"

"What do you think, Mr Potter?"

"I think you're a cracking curse-breaker."

Sharpe snorted. "Give it a moment. There may be one more burst."

"You don't know?"

"I don't come across this particular 'protective' spell often."

"Couldn't you just Vanish the smoke?"

"No. Not yet. Patience."

"Could it escape the room? Hurt anyone?" Harry asked, feeling stupid for not having wondered this sooner.

"It's my understanding that this area of the castle is empty, but I did take steps to ensure that the room was sealed, save for this portal. That, however," Sharpe told him, removing a clear bottle from his pocket and pulling the cork out of it, "will not be a problem."

Sharpe pocketed the cork, tapped the bottle with his wand, and held it up; the black smoke was quickly sucked into the bottle, becoming syrupy as it entered it.

" _Wicked_."

"Yes, quite. This substance is lethal," Sharpe said, as he sheathed his wand before stoppering the bottle and sliding it into his pocket. "Now it's safe to retrieve your chest."

Harry followed him back into the room. "Things might have gone a bit differently for me if you'd been my Defence teacher."

"Yes, I expect that's true." Sharpe removed the small chest from its hidden shelf and offered it to Harry. "Well, Mr Potter, my task is now complete. Do you think that you can find your own way back to your dormitory, or shall I escort you?"

Hugging the chest tightly and without thinking about it, Harry said, "I'll probably wake up any moment now, so no, I guess you don't need to escort me."

Sharpe barked out a laugh. "You believe that you're dreaming? Truly?" he asked, taking a step towards Harry. 

Harry clutched the chest more tightly and swallowed, suddenly unaccountably nervous.

"You do, don't you? Tell me, what kind of hero wastes time on dreaming about explosions and killer smoke when he could be imagining far more pleasant things?"

"I'm not a—"

"Spare me, Mr Potter. You're the epitome of the do-gooding hero, and so very Gryffindor into the bargain."

Harry didn't say anything as Sharpe closed the distance between them and tugged the chest out of his hands. 

Setting it aside, he said, "Remove your charm."

It was only then that Harry realised that Sharpe had already removed his Bubble-Head bubble.

"Or don't. It doesn't matter," Sharpe told him, leaning down to press his face to Harry's inside of the air bubble and bringing with it the man's scent—and his mouth, which opened Harry's in a demanding kiss. 

When Harry felt Sharpe's tongue sliding over his own, he moaned and began kissing him back. It was nothing like what he'd imagined when he'd envisioned kissing Ron, or Malfoy, or any of the boys who'd been part of his dreams; it was like kissing Ginny, not wet at all, and it made him feel hard and soft at once. 

It was definitely a better way to dream, no matter his curiosity about the chest.

Abruptly, Sharpe broke their embrace. 

"What . . . why—"

"No, Mr Potter. No. I am a curse-breaker, not a breaker of children." Sharpe drew his wand and a golden, amorphous "ball" shot from it to hang between them. "Follow it back to your dormitory, and do think of Gringotts for all your curse-breaking needs in future."

With that, Sharpe seized his hat and made for the tunnel. Harry would have gone after him at once were it not for the chest, which he stopped to collect before following the man. The mass of light whizzed by his ear and began travelling back the way they'd come at great speed, and this left Harry with no real choice but to follow it because there was no sign of Sharpe, and he really had no idea how else he'd get back to the tower. And he had to get back there because Ginny was coming to see him.

"Sodding stupid dream!"

~*~

Harry didn't miss Ginny, or the Talk that he'd been expecting from her since he'd seen her with Neville the previous day in the Great Hall; it didn't take particularly long, and he didn't feel half as fussed about it as he'd imagined he'd be. What did bother him were the constant demands. It seemed like everyone at Hogwarts—Governors, Ministry officials, Aurors, professors, students (and their families)—wanted to speak to him; some of them wanted statements, some wanted reassurance, and some, it seemed, just wanted to be near him. In the end, Harry had to apply to Kreacher to keep people away from him. Kreacher took to this duty with perhaps rather more relish than Harry would have liked to have seen, but he was so frustrated by the attention that he repaired to Gryffindor Tower and didn't gainsay Kreacher's methods—until the evening.

"I'm his best friend! Let me in there!"

 _Oh, fuck._ "Let him in, Kreacher!"

Ron's furious face appeared in the open portrait hole. "Oh, so I rate an audience, do I?"

"Just come in, you git."

"Nice way to talk to a bloke who's just . . . lost his brother," Ron said, entering the room and shuffling his feet.

 _Shite._ "I'm sorry. I didn't tell him to keep you away, I just wanted—"

"Yeah, I know. Professor McGonagall told me that everyone's been trying to kiss your arse."

 _Kiss_ , Harry thought, flushing to remember Sharpe's mouth on his and trying not to. 

He still hadn't opened the chest; it hadn't seemed right to look at his Mum's things when he'd been so "preoccupied" by the man who'd helped him to acquire it. He supposed that he should tell Ron about Snape's will, but he decided that it wasn't the right time. 

"So, Neville's at the Burrow comforting Gin. Neville is. What's that about?"

"Luna there, too? She said she was going."

"Yeah, but—"

"Look, Ron, it was Ginny's idea. She and Nev have been through a lot together, and he's probably better for her."

Ron's eyes widened. "You mean she dumped you?"

"Strictly speaking, we were never—"

"Oh, _sod_ 'strictly speaking'! Everyone knows that you're meant for each other!"

"Yeah, everyone but us," Harry said, throwing himself down on the sofa by the fire.

Ron joined him. "Yeah, all right."

"Hermione?"

"Had things to do. I asked if I could help, but . . . ."

"Yeah."

It was quiet for a long time, too quiet, but Harry couldn't think of what to say. He had so much on his mind that even considering talking about it exhausted him. 

"The funeral," Ron said, finally breaking the silence, "that'll be tomorrow."

 _Fred._ "And George?"

"Distraught. Strangely, not as much as Percy is."

"Hmm."

"Look, is it because you're a poof?" Ron abruptly asked.

" _No_."

"But you are a poof."

"I'm not. I'm just . . . well, I think that I'm just flexible, is all—Ginny didn't know that. She just knew that I didn't trust her enough to involve her, at least, that's what she said."

"Tired of being the little sister."

"Always protected."

Ron sighed. "Yeah, well, good luck to her on _that_ changing any time soon. Mum doesn't even want her to come back here."

"Can anyone come back?"

"They're already making arrangements to finish the term over the summer in Hogsmeade while the castle's made safe for next term, and next year, everyone who didn't get to attend school is going to be invited back."

"Makes sense," Harry said, although it seemed strange to him that people were already thinking about moving on.

"McGonagall wants to talk to us about that. She says there might be a way for us to take all our classes over the summer so that we can start our training on time."

"Auror training? But we haven't even applied to—"

"Here," Ron said, passing him a document. "Seems we've been invited to join the DMLE."

Harry skimmed the letter. "'Pending the satisfactory completion of your studies'. Merlin, Ron! They didn't waste any time, did they?"

Ron sighed. "McGonagall's already found an Auror to agree to teach Defence."

The invitation slid from Harry's hand. "People . . . people aren't even in their graves, yet."

"Yeah, but . . . yeah," Ron said, sniffling loudly. "Fuck."

Harry reached for Ron's hand. Ron took it, and then they both, although in future they never spoke of it, began to cry.

~*~

The special summer term was hell on professors and students alike, especially for Harry and Ron, who both were granted Time-Turners in order to take a full year's worth of courses during that time to meet the requirements of the DMLE's Auror Training programme. Hermione had, to Ron's great chagrin and no surprise of Harry's, refused both her invitation to study with them and to enter Auror training. She'd had enough of Time-Turners and adventure, she'd told them, but Harry had known that she'd wanted to spend the summer with her parents, as well as to return to Hogwarts once the school reopened for a "proper," albeit belated, seventh year. To placate Ron, who'd been practically mental in Hermione's absence, Harry had promised him that once the term ended, the three of them would spend time together at Grimmauld before Hermione returned to Hogwarts.

"Master!" Kreacher greeted him, as Harry arrived home. "Everything is ready. Kreacher has seen to all your wishes, and Kreacher has a surprise!"

Harry grinned. It was good to see Kreacher happy, and he was glad that someone had been waiting for him. Ron had gone back to the Burrow to spend a few days with his family before joining Harry, and Hermione wasn't due to arrive until the day before Ron did.

"A surprise? Did you cook something new?"

"Kreacher has done what you told him."

 _Oh, fuck. What did I tell him?_ Harry wondered, following Kreacher towards the kitchen.

While he'd been in Hogsmeade, he'd agreed that Kreacher should remain at Hogwarts because his house-elf's enthusiasm to serve him had become more a hindrance than a help.

"She is waiting," Kreacher continued, spitting on his hands and smoothing down the hair in his ears.

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, and noticed that Kreacher was wearing a new, bright green pillowcase with an embroidered edge which he suspected could probably stand up on its own for all the starch.

"Who's waiting?"

"You told Kreacher to help his friends at the castle, Master, and Kreacher did this."

"But this isn't Hogwarts," Harry said, stopping as Kreacher turned to face him, his ears quivering in excitement.

"Yes, yes! That's true. This is Kreacher's home. Master is very generous with Kreacher. Master is wise. Kreacher was saddened to be sent away. Kreacher punished himself for returning when Master became angry, but now Kreacher understands."

 _Oh, hell_. Harry remembered now. 

It had been difficult to persuade Kreacher to leave him alone while he was studying, and one afternoon when Kreacher had shown up during a lecture at the make-shift school of tents that had been erected in the centre of Hogsmeade for the students—bearing food for all of them because he'd been sure that Harry hadn't been eating well—Harry had ordered Kreacher, "Go find someone else to take care of!" How Kreacher had interpreted that order was something that Harry couldn't even begin to fathom.

"Er, show me?" Harry asked.

"Master Harry is home, Tissy!" Kreacher called, throwing open the kitchen door to reveal an elderly female house-elf wearing a starched silver pillowcase with an embroidery pattern that matched Kreacher's own.

"Master Harry," Tissy greeted him, her ears upright as she took Kreacher's hand.

"Kreacher and Tissy take care of each other, now, Master, just as you said."

"And Tissy is happy to be able to take care of you, as well, Master Harry."

"Thank you, but . . . does the Headmistress know?"

"Oh, when my Kreacher told Mistress McGonagall of your order, she was very kind to Tissy. Tissy is allowed to come and go with Kreacher now," Tissy told him, her eyes shining.

 _House-elves in love_ , Harry thought, gobsmacked. "Well, er, good—I mean, I'm happy to have you here."

Kreacher positively beamed with happiness. "Kreacher has done well, and Tissy has done well. There is food. Sit. You must eat, Master."

It took all evening to satisfy Kreacher and Tissy that he'd eaten enough, and then Harry retired for the night. He'd put something off for long enough; it was time to open Snape's chest.

~*~

"It's beautiful, Harry. Have you looked through everything else, yet?"

"Well, there's this, which must have taken him ages to make," Harry said, deflecting Hermione's question as he took the snow globe he'd just shown her back and held it up to the light. 

The scene inside was of a young Snape, perhaps thirteen, swinging on a set with his mum. They were both smiling, and instead of proper snow, crystalline flakes would swirl within the water when the globe was shaken. 

"He used fairy dust particles for the snow, I think," said Hermione admiringly, "and those figurines are probably just wooden dolls with a charm over them, but a really strong one."

"I wonder why Snape never gave it to Mum?"

"Too shy, I suspect, if he made it when he was the age of his figurine. What about those letters?" Hermione asked, pointing into the trunk.

Just thinking about the twin stacks of letters made Harry blush. 

"Have you read them?"

"They're kind of personal."

"Oh, Harry, I wasn't expecting you to tell me what was in them."

Harry knew that Hermione was disappointed, but he appreciated her pretending not to be. The letters were Snape's to Regulus Black, and Black's to him. He wasn't sure how Snape had managed to get his back from Regulus, but the man _had_ been a spy. In any case, Harry had been wanking to the letters since first reading them. That wasn't something he was about to tell anyone, least of all Hermione, even though he suspected that she knew as well as Ron that he was "flexible."

The other items were personal ones—a hairbrush, a stick entwined with dried flowers, several books of poetry, an essay of his mum's with Snape's scathing comments underneath Slughorn's (apparently, he hadn't been pleased by the professor's failure to understand the subtlety of his mother's work, "no matter his unctuous praise"), a lock of dark hair, and a journal of experimental potions and spells interspersed with more personal entries by Snape. Harry figured that things must have been pretty bad for Snape if he'd been distracted enough to include his journal and mementoes of Regulus amongst the other items in the chest, but he wasn't sorry to have them, and he was quite happy to have remembrances of his mother. Oddly enough, he found that he was also happy to have evidence of Snape's not having been such a complete bastard—and of how much they'd had in common.

Snape's childhood had been just as bad as his; the anger he'd felt about his neglect resonated with Harry, and that the man had been flexible, too, well, that was somehow incredibly reassuring.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Did Ron tell you that the Novitiate's Master of Training was retiring?"

"He is?"

"Apparently, Aldrich Brent's finally found someone worthy of replacing him."

"That is news," Harry said, closing his chest and returning it to his closet. 

Brent was a legend in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; he'd been the Master at the Novitiate for over fifty years, and Harry and Ron had learnt everything about him that they could towards not disappointing the man. 

"I suppose his replacement's an ill-humoured, autocratic twat if Brent likes him."

Hermione laughed. "Nervous, are you?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"Of course, but according to Bill, Sharpe's a good man."

Harry went rigid. "Did you say _Sharpe_?"

"You know of him?"

"Curse-breaker for Gringotts, right?"

"Yes, but how did you—"

"He's the one who retrieved the chest for me."

Now it was Hermione's turn to look surprised. "Well, that is interesting."

" _Sebastian_ Sharpe? You're certain?"

"Yes, Harry, but that's good, isn't it? I mean, that you already know him?"

Harry snorted. "It was just one meeting. I don't know him."

"Did you like him?"

Flushing, Harry replied, "He seemed decent enough, but he'll be the Master now, and . . . ."

"Don't be nervous. I doubt he'll treat you any differently than he will the other novices."

Harry supposed not, but that in itself was disappointing. There'd been no time to practice being flexible while finishing school, and although he'd promised himself the autumn to make up for that (training wouldn't begin until the first of the year), Sharpe had figured in his dreams as much as Snape and Regulus Black had.

He was casting about for something to say when he heard, "Oi! You up there?"

"Ron!" Hermione called, dashing out the door without a word to Harry.

He snorted. He'd expected as much, and he wasn't surprised by Kreacher's tardiness in announcing Grimmauld's newest arrival. When he did come, however, it was bearing a letter; Harry was still scowling over it when Ron and Hermione joined him later for dinner.

~*~

"—'have a plan, but it will require a bit of nerve on my part, and some public speaking on yours. I look forward to discussing this with you tomorrow. Sincerely, Minerva McGonagall'," Harry read, before looking up to see Ron and Hermione's reactions.

"That's reprehensible!" Hermione exclaimed.

Ron frowned. "How can they do it, anyway? There've always been four houses."

"It wouldn't be Hogwarts without them."

"Don't worry about it, Hermione," Harry said, laying aside the letter. "McGonagall's not going to stand for this, and neither am I. First the portrait business, and now this. No, it's completely unacceptable! It's . . . it's like slapping him in the face!"

"Snape, you mean?" Hermione asked, and Harry didn't miss her quick, worried glance at Ron, who shrugged.

"Yes," Harry said, mentally postponing his plans for the autumn.

It seemed that he had work to do.

~*~

Much of the damage that Hogwarts had suffered was still visible to Harry as he approached it for the Sorting ceremony at the start of the next term. Some repairs took longer than others, and Minerva had made it plain that she wasn't in a hurry to allow anyone to forget what had happened at the school. Harry understood that, which was one of the reasons that he'd agreed to address the students as the Board of Governors had requested. While he'd avoided becoming the Ministry's "poster hero," as Ginny had called their desired role for him, he now had several reasons to believe that it was a good idea for him to be on hand to reassure the students that things really were going to go on as usual—and chief among them was Minerva's plan.

The Governors wouldn't be expecting the content of his speech, and they weren't going to appreciate it, but Harry didn't appreciate the lot of them for behaving like such utter arseholes. Still, no matter his resolve to do what he could to help Minerva, he felt odd about why he'd agreed to do it. He'd had plenty of time alone to think over the previous few weeks—Ron and Hermione had been more than willing to entertain themselves—and Harry had spent much of it thinking about what it meant that Snape's portrait had never shown up with the other Headmasters'. He'd even begun to develop certain suspicions regarding the man that he'd become hell-bent to see appropriately honoured.

 _They said_ , he thought, of the Governors, _that the portrait had been arranged, but how can I know that for sure?_

Still, even considering what he knew of Snape's will, Harry found it hard to believe that one magical document could override centuries of Hogwartsian tradition.

As he flew over the Quidditch pitch, however, he put all thoughts of Snape out of his mind. In a little under an hour, he'd be speaking to a packed Great Hall. He'd not addressed any crowd since Voldemort's death, no matter who or why anyone had asked him to, and he had no idea what it was that he was going to say.

_No matter what I say, no matter what people think of me, it doesn't mean that they'll do something just because of my speech._

That Minerva thought otherwise was reassuring, but Harry still had his doubts.

 _Hell, I'm only eighteen. Who cares what I think?_ he asked himself, coming down to land in the centre of the pitch. _At least I'm not coming back to teach_. 

Sighing and shrinking his broom, Harry tucked it into his pocket and made for the castle. He was almost to the stadium's exit when a familiar voice called to him.

"Harry Potter. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. Our Saviour."

"What the hell?" Harry demanded, spinning on one heel to find Sebastian Sharpe striding towards him, a wide grin on his face.

"If you don't want an earful of that rubbish, perhaps you'd allow me to show you one of the entrances to the old battle tunnels? The press is at the front—in force."

"Oh. Er, sure—I mean, _yes_. I don't like reporters."

Sharpe snorted. "You've done an astounding job keeping them at bay since the Dark Lord's death, so I think I believe you."

Harry shook his head and smiled ruefully to remember where some of his dreams had taken him as far as Sharpe was concerned. _No, can't be. I was wrong._ "I'm sorry."

"Whatever for?" Sharpe asked, directing Harry to follow him into the stands.

"I, er, I sort of thought that you might be . . . never mind. It's stupid."

"Might be lurking about in hope of another kiss?" Sharpe asked, indicating that Harry should walk towards the base of the nearest observation tower.

Harry coughed. "No, that wasn't it. But really, it was nothing."

Sharpe pointed his wand at the earth by the tower's outside wall as they came to it, and a hole appeared. Peering into it, Harry could see that there was a stone stair spiralling downwards. 

"Damn, it seems as though we attended two different schools! The Marauder's Map never had these tunnels on it."

"The what? Oh, I see. Some clever students created a map of the school, one to show where everyone was, perhaps? The better to sneak about?"

"Yeah, got it in one," Harry said, suddenly wondering about Sharpe again. _How could he have known that?_ He noticed two things as they took the stairs: Sharpe still smelled good, and his smile was nothing like the smirk that Snape had occasionally worn, which made him waver again on the matter of Sharpe's identity. "I, er, I suppose that's no surprise, given that you'll soon be my Master."

"You're still a flirt, then, Potter?"

"I wasn't flirting."

Sharpe stopped as the stairs began to widen and an arch became visible in the gloom. "I would appreciate it if you'd tell me what you're trying so hard not to."

"You mean, about the nothing?"

"I do."

Harry swallowed; Sharpe's gaze was reminiscent of Grapplethorpe's, steady and piercing. "I thought you might be—it's impossible, of course, but your girl and your boy and the—I mean, you know about these tunnels!"

"Clarity, Mr Potter, will be required of you as an Auror. Try again?"

Sharpe seemed amused, and not at all terrifying; Harry knew now that he'd been wrong about him. "I . . . oh, _hell_. I thought you were Snape. I know it's stupid, but I—"

"Ah. Of course. I expect that does make some sense." Sharpe tapped some of the stones around the arch, and the earth blocking it appeared to melt away. "An illusion, that, and one of mine, I'm proud to say."

"It's good," Harry replied, feeling like a git.

"Don't feel stupid. I contributed to your confusion, I'm sure. You're not the first student to fancy a professor—"

"I never—"

"—and given everything on your mind at the time, it couldn't have helped that I kissed you." Sharpe stopped and turned towards Harry. "I don't regret it, I'm sorry to say. You looked delicious, and I'd not had occasion to celebrate the victory when Grapplethorpe called me. My impulse control has never been particularly good without a reason to mind it."

Harry couldn't believe that they were having this discussion and said nothing.

"Harry—may I call you Harry?" Sharpe asked.

Harry nodded.

"Severus Snape is dead. I know it must have been odd to discover that he'd left you something in his will, and given the circumstances of our meeting so soon after Grapplethorpe presented you with the news, as well as our resultant adventure, I don't blame you for your supposition. But he is dead, and I've been Sebastian Sharpe for all my life, a rather talented curse-breaker with poor impulse control, as I said, but Sebastian Sharpe all the same. I suppose I'm flattered that you think so highly of me, no matter the things I've heard about Snape, so I'll give you my promise now never to mention your confusion to anyone."

"Thanks. I don't know what I was thinking, really. I guess I just . . . ."

"I'm good with puzzles, too. Something, or several things, about me remind you of Snape, is that it?"

"He was flexible."

Sharpe laughed. "If you mean that he fancied both sexes, that's hardly uncommon," Sharpe replied, favouring Harry with a pointed glance.

Harry flushed. "He had a girl, sort of, my mum, I mean, in Gryffindor—and a boy in Slytherin. He was good at spells, like you, and you knew all about his quarters."

It seemed terribly important to Harry to present his reasons. He'd barely allowed himself to think of them for all the wanking, and now that he had Sharpe in front of him . . . .

"Was there something that you wanted to say to Snape, some apology that you wished to make him?"

"Snape was a right bastard to me from the moment I stepped into his classroom. He was a hateful git!"

"But?"

"But he was brave, too. He saved my life and tried to save Mum's—and I called him a coward almost the last time I spoke to him. I just . . . I never liked him, you understand, but I wish I'd had . . . I wish that I could have saved him back, you know? And had the chance to thank him."

"And?"

"Oh, all right, and to apologise to him."

"For calling him a coward?"

"I guess. Yeah."

"Harry, as I understand matters, Snape was playing a role, and you're no more responsible for how you reacted to that trickery than he was for having to be so cruel—unless of course he took some pleasure in it, in which case, yes, a right bastard he must have been. But by my lights, you've no reason to apologise to him at all. You were, and you'll forgive me for saying so, I hope, just a boy."

"There's a lot you don't know about Snape."

"To be honest with you, there's a lot I don't care to know about the man, but you interest me."

"Should I?"

"I don't see why not."

"You're going to be my Master of Instruction."

Sharpe grinned. 

"Merlin, but I was wrong about you."

"There's nothing in the _written_ rules against fraternisation, but no, I won't be indulging myself with any novices."

"Right, you don't break children. I remember."

"I don't suppose that you are a child after everything you've experienced, but you are harbouring an odd wish to connect me to this Snape of yours."

Harry frowned and ran a hand through his fringe. 

"You say you know that you were wrong about me, but I don't believe you. Some part of you obviously needs to believe that the man's still with us."

"You sound like a Muggle head doctor."

"Curse-breaking is aided by a working understanding of what could be considered the psychiatric arts, but it's more than that. Do you still have nightmares? Are you still keeping yourself too busy to think?" Sharpe asked, retrieving the phial that Harry had seen before and sipping from it.

"What is that?"

"Just a bit of Firebright. Now answer my question."

Harry knew what Firebright Elixir was, at least, he knew that it was forbidden for use by Auror trainees; that information had been included in the literature he'd been given with regard to his upcoming training. "Do you take it to remain alert?"

Sharpe shook his head. "It's no use trying to deflect my questions. At the Novitiate, I'm going to learn far more about you than—"

"Yeah, yes, I do have nightmares, and I haven't let myself rest in . . . in ages, it seems, but I don't know how else to go on."

"Honest. Good. Since you've been honest, I'll tell you that I couldn't possibly be as charming as I am without my elixir. Curse-breaking takes its toll. Frankly, given what your life has been like I'm surprised that you haven't developed any bad habits. You're a stronger man than I am, it seems."

"You think? I don't feel particularly strong, and—and you know, I can't think why I'm talking to you like this."

"Because you don't, is that right? Talk?"

"Not like this."

"Has anyone asked you to?"

"Sure, but—"

"Anyone to whom you'd care to speak?"

"No," Harry said, leaning against the wall opposite Sharpe and sliding down it into a squat.

Ron wasn't much for talking, and Hermione had contented herself with worried, bearing up looks that told Harry she was trying to respect his privacy.

"Yes, we have been standing here for an age." Sharpe mirrored Harry's posture. "We've perhaps twenty minutes before the Sorting."

"They'll wait."

Sharpe's eyebrows rose.

"Not that I'll make them. I'm just nervous."

"Why?"

"Because they're trying to get rid of Slytherin House."

Sharpe's eyes narrowed, and no matter what Harry had previously thought, the man's expression was a twin of Snape's cool but angry expression. "Minerva and I aren't going to let them, though. Well, mostly Minerva—it's her plan."

Smiling at that, Sharpe insisted that Harry explain, which Harry quickly did, and then the two of them rose.

"Your efforts on Slytherin's behalf are most welcome, Mr Potter."

"I thought I was Harry?"

"And I'm Sebastian, but only when we're alone."

Harry grinned as they proceeded further into the castle at a fast pace. "What happened to not involving yourself with novices?"

"I mentioned my impulse issues?"

"So you did, Sebastian."

~*~

Given that he was about to involve himself in a Sorting-related issue, Harry decided to speak to the hat responsible for the process. All eyes were on Minerva, and the Sorting Hat was in front of her place at the High Table, next to which Harry was sitting. He surreptitiously took the opportunity to move the hat towards the edge of the table and himself, sighing to remember how Fred and George had taught him to throw his voice like a ventriloquist one holiday.

 _It's amazing how many silly things they taught me that have turned out to be useful_ , he mused, throw-whispering without shifting his position, "So, er, Mr Hat, I mean, Mr Sorting Hat?" 

"Why Harry Potter, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"And feeling so very Slytherin, too."

"Mr Sorting Hat, I—"

"Hat will do nicely, Mr Potter."

"Oh, er, all right," Harry whispered, noticing that Minerva seemed nearly done with her speech. "About Slytherin, do you think you'll still be Sorting students into it?"

"Who can say for certain? I won't know until I'm worn."

"So you'll still do it, if it's called for?"

"Of course I will. Why would you ask such a question?"

"No reason. Well, all right, there is one, but—"

"—to the podium, Mr Harry Potter!"

Harry started as the candles hovering overhead flared and people's attention turned from Minerva to him. He stood up from the High Table and walked around it to take her place at the podium, shifting uncomfortably as the applause continued. Finally, quiet fell in the Great Hall, and he began to speak.

His words, however, wouldn't come. He'd meant to speak first of Voldemort, of honouring the dead, but he'd been thinking about Snape and Slytherin. He covered himself by feigning a coughing fit, and that was when he noticed Grapplethorpe leaning on his cane at the back of the hall.

_Fuck. Snape's will._

Somehow, Grapplethorpe was doing something to honour Snape's wishes about 'intangible' memorials.

 _Bastard_ , Harry thought, meaning Snape rather than Grapplethorpe. _Fine, then._ "I'm sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm coming down with a bit of a cold, but nothing could have prevented me from being here today."

Cheers erupted in the hall, which Harry smiled through, thinking furiously about what to say.

"Hogwarts has a house system, and one that works. You've all grown up hearing about it. You've all wondered if you'd be Sorted as your parents were. For some of you, I imagine, today is especially worrisome."

A ripple of noise, as if of uneasy agreement, rolled through the soon-to-be First Years.

"Well, this is all I have to say about that: this is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had four founders. It's always had four houses. And today, no matter the . . . the infamy of some, it has four houses still."

Instead of applause, Harry looked out into the crowd to see that everyone appeared to be holding their breath.

"Voldemort killed my parents, but he didn't kill Slytherin House. His evil had nothing to do with his Sorting. Ambitious, brave, clever, and loyal students have come out of Slytherin, and today, ambitious, brave, clever, and loyal students will find themselves Sorted into it."

Now came the applause, and it was thunderous; Harry found himself so caught up in his relief at the resultant excitement that he forgot the rest of his speech even as he finished making it. 

At some point after the Sorting—which produced seven new Slytherins (and Minerva told him that she was sure there would be others once the news got out that Slytherin was still a house at Hogwarts)—Harry found himself shaking hands with Draco Malfoy.

"You're back to finish?"

"Obviously, Potter, and I appreciate what you've done. Being made a Ravenclaw would have been unbearable."

"You expected to be Re-Sorted?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Of course I did, at least, at first. Father's had his solicitors preparing a challenge to that eventuality for months. Frankly, I'm relieved it didn't come to that."

"It would have been a sorry thing to do, especially given . . . I mean—"

"You mean Professor Snape, and so do I," Malfoy interrupted, his expression losing all trace of arrogance. "Thank you for saving his house. It seems as though that's all the memorial he's ever to receive."

Harry had only the chance to nod before he was pulled away by Minerva, who gestured at a Governor striding towards them. "Perhaps you'd like to visit the staff room? They can't go in there. Severus saw to that when he became Headmaster."

Harry gave a half-laugh and made for the door behind the High Table.

~*~

Sharpe was waiting for him in the staff room.

"I never did ask," Harry said, as if he'd been expecting the man, "why you were here—or if anyone knew you were."

"Everyone who's seen me knows that I'm here."

"Why do I get the feeling that the list of people who have seen you is short?"

Sharpe smirked as Harry sat down near him. "Because you're not a dunderhead?"

"Snape used to say dunderhead."

"Snape is dead, Harry. You watched him die."

"No body."

"No funeral."

"Not for lack of trying."

"Goblin efficiency, I expect," Sharpe replied, sipping from his phial.

Harry raised an eyebrow. _No ghost, either._ "Why are you here, anyway?"

"Curiosity."

"About what?"

"About you, or hadn't you gathered that?"

"Impulse control."

"Poor, if we're speaking of mine, but I meant what I said about not interfering with novices. Of course, you're not yet a novice, are you, Mr Potter?"

"You're . . . really rather strange, _Sebastian_."

"No, Harry, I'm intrigued—and Slytherin enough to know how to bend the rules without breaking them." Pocketing his phial, Sharpe rose. "Shall we?"

"Er, shall we what?"

"Make great use of an old battle tunnel."

 _Oh_ , Harry thought, swallowing hard to find himself so.

~*~

There was a long, liquid moment in which Harry thought his very soul was being sucked out of his body through his prick; Sebastian's mouth was a hot vortex of suction and undulating tongue. The rhythm of its movement against the underside of his cock was damnably slow, but it coaxed more than one orgasm from him before he finally couldn't take the pleasure anymore and collapsed, breathing heavily, into Sebastian's strong embrace, and Harry found himself laughing uncontrollably.

"Sorry, can't . . . I can't . . . I don't . . . know why—"

"Don't fight what you're feeling," Sebastian said, his voice so low that it was almost a growl.

Harry could hear the need in it.

"But I . . . want . . . I want—"

Sebastian shifted a bit, and Harry spilt bonelessly into his lap, his head leaning against the older man's chest. Sebastian was cradling him, and that should have been awkward, but Harry couldn't bring himself to mind. 

"I want you, to . . . I want to do . . . that to . . . you."

Lips pressed themselves to his head. "Rest. We've time."

"Do we?"

"Oh, yes. I've made certain of it."

Harry nuzzled against Sebastian, on impulse, nipping at his chest before allowing sleep to claim him. 

The last thing he heard before it took him completely was Sebastian's murmured, "Things will be different this time."

~*~

Harry woke up in Snape's quarters, alone, or so he thought until he noticed the steam pouring into the room from a door he'd not noticed the last time he'd been there. Snatches of a bawdy song issued from that room, as well; the singer's voice was deep and rich, and once again, Harry found himself sure that Sebastian Sharpe was Severus Snape. He stretched his deliciously sore limbs and rose from the bed, moving towards the open door.

 _It's true, isn't it? But how can it be?_ he wondered, his eyes playing over the lean, well-muscled body he saw in the shower. _He doesn't act like Snape, but . . . ._

It occurred to Harry that perhaps Sebastian was right; perhaps some part of him did need Sebastian to be Snape, so he was just imagining similarities between the two. Still, there was the matter of Sebastian's phial. Polyjuice was a possibility.

_But Nagini's bite—how could Snape have survived that? I watched him die._

Harry couldn't think how it might be possible that only hours after suffering such a dreadful injury, Snape could have shown up in the guise of Sharpe.

_But I don't have to know how it happened for it to have happened, do I?_

"Are you just going to stand there, or would you like to join me?"

Harry started. "Sorry, didn't mean to stare."

"And why not?" Sebastian asked, turning around to display his wet, soapy body to Harry. "I'm worth a look or two like this, I think."

The smile wasn't Snape's, but Harry was more interested in the rising prick before him; it made him forget his confusion entirely. "Rinse off. I want to suck you."

"Yes, so very much the Gryffind— _oh_."

Harry liked Sebastian's reaction to his fingers fondling his bollocks, and he rolled them slowly as he knelt before him, his free hand sliding down Sebastian's torso to grasp the base of his prick. Grinning up at him, he closed his eyes before taking what he could of Sebastian's cock into his mouth, trying to roll his tongue along the pulsing vein of its underside even as he sucked. It took some getting used to, cock-sucking, but before long, Harry was sure he'd got the hang of it.

" _Fuck_ yes, just like . . . fuck, _Har—_ "


	2. Chapter 2

"—ry Potter! Are you an _imbecile_?"

"No sir, Master Sharpe, sir!" Harry exclaimed, picking himself up out of the mud.

"Then why," Sharpe demanded, circling Harry's position around the edge of the pit, "are you down there instead of up on the rope? Shielding charms too much for you, boy?"

Harry was wet and cold and furious—and cursing _Snape_ in his mind—because the instruction style of his Master was so very much like Snape's had been. 

"Answer me, Potter. Have I wasted an entire unit's instruction on you? Was the DMLE wrong in its assessment of your potential? Is our little celebrity's reputation greatly exaggerated?"

"Belt up, you loathsome piece of shi—"

Harry choked as he felt the hand wrap around his throat and the press of Snape's—yes, _Snape's_ —body against his. _Fuck._

He'd never felt more aroused in his life. He hoped like hell that only Sebastian noticed.

"You will keep a civil tone when addressing me, _Novice_ Potter," Sharpe's voice hissed against his ear. "This isn't Hogwarts, and there's no kindly Headmaster to help you _here_. This is Auror Training!" the man shouted, loosening his grip on Harry's throat. "Without focus, you could die during your training. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, _what_?"

"Yes, _sir_ , Master Sna—arpe, sir!"

His Master pushed Harry away from him so forcefully that Harry found himself on all fours in the mud again. It was mortifying, but at least none of the other novices laughed; they'd all received similar treatment for carelessness in the past. Looking up defiantly at the bastard, Harry remained as he was. He knew from experience that things would only get worse if he took the liberty of acting before "Sharpe" directed him to.

The man's expression suddenly turned from angry to amused. "Well, my novices, it's obvious to me that you require more work on balanced casting. See to it that you practise until dusk," he ordered, as groans issued from most of the class. "And don't blame Potter for it. Not one of you has performed adequately this morning."

"Oi!"

"Ah, forgive me, Novice Weasley. You _have_ almost mastered balanced casting. I leave you in charge of the others."

Harry found himself hating Ron more than Snape-Sharpe in that moment—Merlin, but he was confused—yet, he tried to ignore the feeling; he _was_ pants at balanced casting and knew that he'd need his partner's help to master the skill.

_Bloody Super Novice Weasley!_

~*~

"Nice of you to deign to use the showers with the rest of us, your majesty."

"Get stuffed. It wasn't my fault—and he's done worse to me. You know he has."

"Not lately," Harry replied, soaping his hair.

"Least he ain't old Moody," someone remarked, his voice muffled by the water.

"Right," Harry muttered, rinsing his head.

Training wasn't going how he'd envisioned it. It was fucking hell, in fact, and he couldn't seem to do anything right. What was worse, Sebastian had been true to his word; they'd not seen each other privately since New Year's. One second, he'd been pressed into the wall, Sebastian's cock working his arse and making him scream; the next, the first had dawned, and _Master Sharpe_ had ordered Harry to the Novitiate.

_He's been a right bastard ever since!_

Harry had to admit, however, that although Sebastian's training style was entirely too reminiscent of Snape's teaching one, the man was fair—and much better in his instruction. He was hell bent on teaching his novices how to survive, no matter if it killed them. In fact, he'd told them, "You might die learning to survive. If so, you'll know: you're not meant to be an Auror."

The grin he'd worn while telling them this was in no way a grin that Snape would ever have worn, and it had left Harry feeling aroused and confounded.

"Fuck," he muttered, as his prick stirred. 

He cast a now-familiar, non-verbal deflation spell and stalked from the shower towards his waiting clothing. He wanted a wank, several, in fact, but he wasn't going to indulge at the Novitiate. His stubborn prick twitched as Harry thought of the coming day's leave and the battle tunnels within Hogwarts. He'd suffer the frustration of a fitful night's rest, but in the morning . . . .

As he left the locker room, he heard Ron saying, "Yep, pretty much he's always been a moody sort. Just leave it. He'll come 'round."

_Come, anyway, thank you very much._

~*~

"Your respect of boundaries being what it is, I thought I could do worse than be 'flexible' with regard to one of my personal rules."

"Sharpe."

"Sebastian," Sebastian corrected Harry, as he pushed off the wall against which he was leaning in the tunnel that led towards Snape's old quarters.

No one had claimed them, yet, which wasn't much of a surprise to Harry. Apparently, the wards were rather unpleasant on the dungeon-side entrance to the chamber.

"If you say so."

"Harry, we've been through this before," Sebastian said, as he approached him and pulled Harry towards him by his robes. "Severus Snape is dead."

Harry's hands, seemingly of their own volition, began to tug at Sebastian's clothing, unbuttoning bone buttons and unlacing leather trouser strings. "Right. Of course."

"Shut up and fuck me, you idiot. I have a meeting this afternoon."

A shiver rushed down Harry's spine and he gasped.

Sebastian smirked. "What? The idea of taking me against the wall doesn't appeal?"

Sucking his lower lip into his mouth, Harry continued to stare at Sebastian, whose half-closed, deep brown eyes darkened. He growled and backed Harry into the wall, spinning him around and murmuring a series of spells that left Harry nude, lubricated, and ready. 

"As you like, then. Fucking you is always my pleasure." 

There was nothing gentle about Sebastian's first thrust; he slid home and then pulled out almost completely, only to slam Harry's body into the wall again with his next one. This was a motion that he repeated, again and again, until Harry's cheek and torso were cold with rubbed-off dirt and every other part of him was on fire with need.

"Please, please, please." Begging and breathing and feeling—that was all Harry could do until Sebastian made one slight shift in his thrusting and colours exploded behind Harry's eyelids. "Fuck!"

Sebastian gasped in time with Harry's shout and bit Harry's shoulder, muffling his own exclamation. The teeth digging sharply into his skin hurt, but Harry loved it and shuddered mindlessly through the pain. When his orgasm subsided, he discovered that he'd clawed his fingers into the earthen wall before him, and realised that Sebastian was lightly licking the indentations his teeth had made. The tenderness of this gesture surprised Harry.

"Liked that."

"Yes, so you did."

"The biting. Liked that a lot."

In response, Sebastian turned Harry to face him before bending down to lightly nibble the vein in the side of Harry's neck, causing him to squirm.

"I should . . . like," Sebastian murmured, in between tiny bites, "to tie . . . you down."

"Oh, that's . . . _oh_."

"Yes, tie . . . you down . . . and have you . . . at my . . . mercy."

Mercy. Now that was something that Snape had never shown. _Don't care. Don't care about Snape_ , Harry lied to himself. "'Bastian, _mouth_."

His request hadn't been clear, but Sebastian was able to discern Harry's meaning and moved to kiss him in a slow exploration of lips and tongue. He sucked Harry's lower lip into his mouth, worried it lightly, and then chuckled as Harry pressed forward, using his own tongue to deepen the kiss. They danced like this for a while, tongue against tongue, their arms wrapping around each other, their pricks lengthening and thickening with interest at the intimacy, until Harry moved his hands from Sebastian's arse to make a column with them around their cocks.

"Fuck my hands," he whispered, staring at Sebastian and determined to watch him come this time. "Move with me. Fuck them."

He saw some unfamiliar emotion flicker in Sebastian's eyes, but his lover didn't look away. Harry fought to control his breathing, to keep it quiet, as they thrust up against each other's pricks within the column of his fingers, both of them, it seemed, tense with something more than erotic anticipation.

"H—Harry, I . . . you . . . ."

Harry shook his head. "Don't speak. You don't have to say anything. Just—oh, yeah—just look . . . just look . . . at me."

At those words, Sebastian's knees buckled and he fell forward, catching himself by planting his palms against the wall into which Harry was leaning—but he didn't stop fucking Harry's hands. 

A thrill of power surged through Harry then. "Look at me," he said again. "You like . . . looking at . . . me, don't you? Works for you, the . . . looking. . . . You, _fuck_ ," Harry swore, speeding his thrusts. He was close, so close; Sebastian was, too, given how hard he was shaking. "You wanted . . . me to look . . . at you . . . _before_. . . . Didn't you? You wanted . . . me to _look_!"

It was difficult to keep his eyes open as he came, but he managed it, watching Sebastian's joy-grim expression, watching as his lips formed an open-mouthed, silent scream as he came—and then Harry was catching Sebastian as he fell forward, guiding him gently to the floor, where they fell away from one another, gasping.

 _I wasn't wrong, was I?_ Harry thought. "I was . . . right. You are. . . . You _are_ ," Harry whispered, trying and failing to make his limbs work.

"Sebastian," well, his only response was ragged breathing.

When Harry finally recovered from the intensity of their encounter, he turned to find his lover curled in on himself—still shaking. Somewhat emboldened by this unexpected display of emotion, Harry decided to test his theory. 

"Se—everus, I'm sorry. Sorry to press you, but—"

" _Sebastian_ , Harry. Severus Snape is _dead_."

Harry reached for what he believed to be Snape's long plait of Polyjuiced hair and began to unbraid it, luxuriating in its softness and liking very much its russet-coloured redness. "This is nice, but I'd like to run my fingers through _your_ hair, as well. Perhaps you'll leave off taking your next dose of potion so that I can? I think I understand why you're hiding, but—"

"Let go," the man ordered, picking himself up abruptly. 

"There's no reason for you to pretend anymore," Harry protested.

" _Idiot_. You understand _nothing_. He's _dead_. He's _been_ dead. He isn't _me_. I. Am. Not. Severus. Snape."

"Of course you are," Harry said, standing up and stepping towards "Sebastian," who was dressing himself with stiff, painful-looking movements. But as he said the words and saw how his lover's expression seemed to crumple into sadness, he began to doubt himself again. "Sna—Sharpe—Sebastian, please. Don't go."

Sebastian pulled his phial from a trouser pocket, unstoppered it, and drank more deeply than ever he'd drunk before. Harry watched him shudder and repressed the unbidden desire to laugh when the man belched loudly. 

In moments, his familiar grin returned.

"Well now, _that_ was dramatic, but then, fucking sometimes is. I'm for a meeting, but—"

"Hey! What the _hell_ do you think you're playing at?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You can't just leave things like this!"

"I can't?" Sebastian asked, his eyes widening in an expression of semi-theatrical surprise. "We've had it off thoroughly enough. What's left?"

"You . . . your entire . . . why are you so bloody _different_ now?"

Sebastian made a toasting gesture with his phial before pocketing it, his gaze locked on Harry's. "Firebright Elixir. I did tell you that without it, I'm not at all this charming." His smile slid into a smirk, and then it faded. "I told you, Harry, Severus Snape is dead. I'm not Severus Snape. I can't, no, I _won't_ be his succedaneum for you, either, so if it's your intention to persist in this . . . fantasy of yours, then I'm afraid we won't be fucking anymore."

With those words, Sebastian turned on his heel and left him. Harry, his eyes burning, tried to call to him, but the words wouldn't come. 

"Get dressed, Novice Potter," Sebastian called back without turning. "It's bloody cold down here!"

~*~

The heat from the fire of the Burrow's hearth sank into Harry's bones in welcoming waves, but even amidst so much holiday cheer and good company, Harry felt powerfully lonely: he'd tried to ease that feeling by wanking over Snape's letters to Regulus again, but the letters were losing their appeal—especially because of Sebastian's increasingly intrusive and mocking presence in his Snapian fantasies.

 _Bastard_.

Seeing the man almost every day and knowing that he'd fucked things up between them so thoroughly was murder, but Harry didn't know how to revive things. Sebastian remained a hard task master on the training field, but he was supportive off it, and fun, too, occasionally joining his novices down at the pub for a pint and to share stories. Harry had verified them all on his days of leave over the previous few months: there was a Sebastian Sharpe, curse-breaker. He'd been born near Manchester and had no living family. He'd been a Slytherin—and good at Gobstones, Charms, Duelling, and Transfiguration—Harry had seen his awards in the cases at Hogwarts. Sebastian Sharpe was real, personable, and hotter than any man Harry had ever wanted, had ever had, and he could have had him yet if he hadn't have been so bloody fucking stupid.

Harry was doomed to remain without him, however, because he knew, in his gut, that Sebastian was Snape. He supposed that he understood why Snape had reinvented himself.

 _But why can't he be honest about it with me?_ Harry thought, poking at the logs forcefully in his frustration.

"Sparks!" Hermione exclaimed, entering the lounge. 

"What?"

"You're sending sparks flying _everywhere_."

"Thought everyone was in the kitchen," Harry mumbled, putting the poker back into its stand.

"Right, so we all were until I was sent in here to find out what's brought on your current fit of sulks. I think it's because of Professor Snape's statue. Am I right?"

"Shite. I didn't think I'd been that obvious about it."

Hermione shook her head. "You're not good at hiding your emotions, Harry, and I know how important he was to—I mean," she said, blushing, "how important it is to you that he be honoured."

"If you're thinking that I fancied Snape, you're wrong."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Merlin, Harry! Of _course_ you did! You were as obsessed with him as ever you were with Malfoy."

"Well, obsession isn't fancy, is it?"

Loud laughter issued from the kitchen, then, and Hermione said, "Let's walk. I expect that people will want the lounge back soon."

Harry followed Hermione to the front door without argument. He had no desire to see anyone else, especially when they might also think he fancied Snape because of his efforts to honour the man's memory. Grabbing his cloak after she took hers, he stepped outside into the snowy coldness of the evening. The chill did nothing to ease the inflammation of his ears and cheeks.

"I know that the statue business bothers you," Hermione said, referring again to the attempt to memorialise Snape in stone on Hogwarts' grounds at the yuletide memorial for the dead, something that Harry, who truly loathed all such ceremonies, had encouraged in spite of his certainty that something would go wrong. 

When he'd seen Grapplethorpe in the crowd, he'd been tempted to hex the goblin, particularly when he'd caught sight of Luna's stricken expression; she'd spent months sculpting her statue of Snape, hacking away at the large chunk of Hogwarts' masonry as a means of exorcising the trauma she'd experienced in the Malfoy dungeons—at least, that's what Hermione believed. When the statue had crumbled into dust, everyone had just assumed that it hadn't held for the same reason that no portrait had appeared of Snape with the other former Headmasters. People appeared to believe that Hogwarts, itself, had not forgiven Snape, even if the Boy Who Lived had, and that frustrated Harry terribly. 

_I should have told them_ , he thought guiltily, suddenly realising that Hermione was still speaking.

"—know that you're upset that the Ministry has never officially recognised his heroism."

"They did try."

"So they did, but I wish we knew _why_ nothing's working! It's . . . it's almost as if someone is deliberately trying to prevent the professor's achievements from being recognised."

Harry looked around and judged that they'd walked about a quarter mile away from the Burrow, which was far enough; he and Hermione were alone on the path. Sighing, he thought, _You might as well tell her. If you don't, she'll eventually figure it out, and it probably wouldn't be good for Hermione or all of goblin kind if she were to take on Gringotts because of you_. 

"What's the matter?"

"I know why none of the memorials are holding."

" _What_?"

"It's because of Snape's will," Harry told her, explaining what he meant more fully.

"Why haven't you told anyone about this before?"

"What good would it have done? He clearly meant it."

Hermione huffed. From anyone else, the exhalation would have been a sigh, but from Hermione, it was a huff—and it was so characteristic of her that it made Harry laugh.

"This isn't funny! Memorials aren't for the dead. They're for the living! And why on earth would he have wanted to be forgotten? That's hardly a _Slytherin_ trait."

"I guess you don't know enough about Slytherins, or Snape, the sodding stubborn bastard!"

"Harry?" Hermione asked, stopping.

" _What_?"

" _Don't_ be sharp with me."

"Sorry." Harry ran a hand through his fringe and sneezed, the cold finally affecting him.

"It sounds to me as if you _did_ fancy the professor."

"But I _didn't_ —no," Harry insisted, raising a hand to prevent Hermione from interrupting him. "It wasn't like that. I mean, I suppose it's fair to say that I was obsessed." Hermione's expression became pointed. "Look, I may have wanked over the bastard in school—"

"I did _not_ need to know tha—"

"—but that wasn't until I read the textbook, _his_ textbook." 

"Do you mean the Potions text that you cheated from sixth year?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I know you didn't approve of that, but I liked reading it, I liked the person who scribbled in its margins. He was funny and cool and the way his mind worked was—"

"A turn-on, apparently."

Harry sighed; it made him uncomfortable when Hermione said things like that, but he wasn't about to admit it to her. "Yeah, but it was the half-blood prince I was thinking of then, not Snape. I hated Snape. I still do. But I think that I could have been the prince's friend."

"I suppose," Hermione said, after they'd begun to walk again, "that it must be difficult for you to reconcile your impressions of the 'prince' with what you knew of the professor."

"It still is, except now everything's become far more complicated."

"What do you mean?"

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself for his admission. Exhaling, he said, "Severus Snape isn't dead."

Hermione froze, and Harry turned to see her open her mouth as if to speak and then close it again before she exaggeratedly moved her wand hand nearer to the pocket in which she kept her wand sheathed.

"I'm not mad, I swear," Harry insisted, "and I can prove it."

~*~

Proving it, or at least, trying to prove it, involved fetching Snape's will from Grimmauld while Hermione returned to the Burrow to reassure everyone that Harry was merely feeling overwhelmed by the holiday. "Overwhelmed" had become something of a Weasley family shorthand for "bugger off, you lot," and it was respected. When Harry returned, he found everyone in bed but Hermione, who was waiting for him in the kitchen.

"Here, read Section Two," he said, handing her the will.

Hermione took it. "Tea?"

"That would be lovely."

Hermione cleared her throat.

"Oh," Harry said. "Right."

As he brought their mugs to the table, Hermione looked up at him and muttered, "Bloody-minded git."

Harry was sure that she meant Snape, and this relieved him; he'd half-expected Hermione to suggest that he be seen at the Janus Thickey Ward. "Does this mean that you believe me?"

"It means that I want to say something, and I don't want you to interrupt me."

Harry smirked. "When have I ever been able to do that?"

" _Tch_."

"Oh, go on, then. I won't interrupt."

"Harry, are you in love with Master Sharpe?"

That wasn't what he'd been expecting her to say, and it caught him off-guard. "Wouldn't answering that be interruption of a sort?"

" _Harry_."

"I . . . I don't know, but what about Section—"

"Why don't you know?"

"How _can_ I? Everything's so bloody confused!"

"Because you believe that Master Sharpe is Professor Snape?"

"No, because I _like_ Sebastian, and I never liked Snape—at least, not _Professor_ Snape—we _hated_ each other."

"Royal wank-fodder or no, do you really believe that you could have loved Professor Snape, especially given his . . . history with your mum?"

 _Ew_. Harry screwed up his face at the implication of Hermione's words. "I've never actually thought of things like that, but—"

"No buts, Harry. I don't believe that you could have loved the professor anymore than he could have loved you. Like you said, you hated each other, but Master Sharpe, Sebastian, well, he's free to love whomever he chooses, and at the very least, he likes shagging you."

Harry flushed. He'd tried to be vague about the exact nature of his relationship with Sebastian, but Hermione was sharper in tack terms than most people. "What's your point?"

"Severus Snape is dead."

Harry's mood abruptly soured. "Fine, if you don't believe me, then—"

"I didn't say that I didn't believe you!"

"Well, _what_ then?"

"This is the don't interrupt part," Hermione said, raising her right eyebrow as if in expectation of some indication of his agreement.

Scowling and crossing his arms over his chest, Harry nodded.

"Severus Snape is dead. He died," Hermione told Harry, showing him Snape's will, "upon the Surrendering of his name."

"So that _is_ a rite of some kind."

"It is. To Surrender one's name is to give up one's identity, essentially, to legally erase oneself from the wizarding world."

"How is it that you always know these things?"

"I read."

Harry rolled his eyes and allowed his hands to fall into his lap.

"And my latest assignment for Advanced History of Magic is an essay on the development of the Magical Code. I've been paying particular attention to old, rarely used legal rituals."

"Of course you have been."

Hermione's left eyebrow, which she always lifted to indicate annoyance, rose, and Harry compressed his lips together to indicate his intention of not interrupting her further.

"Don't you see, Harry? If Professor Snape performed the Rite of Surrender before his physical death, he effectively killed himself. This means that Sebastian can no more claim to be Snape than you or I could, no doubt because of the magic involved in the Surrendering."

"But . . . but if he did perform it, how could he have become Sharpe so completely? Oh, _Merlin_ ," Harry said, grabbing the edge of the table with both hands, "do you think—"

"No," Hermione assured him, reaching for his hands. They were warm and small and soft, but her voice was strong as she continued, "I don't believe that Snape would have stolen Sebastian's identity, not given everything he did in life that was noble."

"No matter what he did for Dumbledore, he was still a Death Eater."

"Yes, well, I hardly think that he'd begin a new life for himself by keeping someone a prisoner for his hair, do you?"

"You mean, for Polyjuice purposes? No, I suppose not."

"Even though we don't know if, I mean, how," Hermione corrected herself, squeezing Harry's hands before releasing them, "Professor Snape might have survived, or how he might have arranged to become Sebastian Sharpe, it's obvious that it's the most likely scenario here—assuming that the professor didn't die from Nagini's attack, of course."

Harry's failure to save Snape from Nagini's attack figured prominently in his nightmares. _I should have done something. I can't believe that I just let him die!_ he thought, sighing at Hermione's logic. _It was stupid of me to think she'd really believe me about Sharpe. The entire idea is so far-fetched that I can't believe I_ do _believe—_

"—brings me back to my first question."

"Hmm?" Harry asked, realising that he'd lost track of what Hermione had been saying again. 

"Are you in love with Sebastian?"

"I answered that already. I don't know."

Hermione raised her eyebrows pointedly at him.

"We've just been, I mean, shagging isn't love, but . . . ."

"Assuming you are falling in love with the man, do you think it's because of the connection that you've made between him and the half-blood prince, or is it because of the man, himself? And either way, how can you be falling for someone about whom you know so little?"

Harry didn't know how to answer those questions, not really. There was just something there between Sebastian and himself, something taut and drawing. It wasn't quite what he'd felt from Snape, but it was just as compelling. 

Ignoring Hermione's questions, he said, "If Snape is Sebastian, I'd really like to know how he managed to become him. If there's a crime here . . . ."

"If that were truly your concern, you'd have investigated Sebastian's background."

Harry flushed. "I have done."

"I'm not surprised. What you found obviously hasn't sorted your confusion, though, so . . . so try this: pretend that there _isn't_ a crime involved. Pretend that you're _not_ obsessed with reconciling what you know of the professor with his student self. Pretend that your involvement is with Sebastian Sharpe alone. Given all that, can you accept him?"

 _But Sebastian_ is _Snape, and . . . oh, hell!_ "I don't know. Truly, I don't. I mean, Snape, he was . . . he's—"

"Dead, legally declared so at the very least, which means that you can't have a relationship with _him_. And honestly, Harry, I don't know why you'd even want to."

"You mean, because of Mum?"

Hermione nodded. 

"That's something I don't want to understand. It's creepy, thinking about Snape wanting me after . . . ."

Hermione leant back and crossed her arms. "Not so creepy to you that you didn't fuck him."

" _Hermione_."

"Oh, don't look at me as if you truly believe I'm ignorant of fucking. I'm dating a _Weasley_. I 'dated' him fairly vigorously under your roof not long ago."

Harry flushed. "I, er, I try not to think about you like that, sexually, I mean." 

"Good," Hermione replied, leaning forward to reach for her teacup. "You know, I think it's interesting that in spite of the many layers of creepiness involved in your fucking someone you suspect of being Snape, you've managed to do it anyway."

"But it _wasn't_ Snape whom I was fucking. It was 'Bastian."

Hermione set down her tea and beamed at Harry. " _Exactly_."

Harry frowned.

"Frankly, I'm not sure I see what your problem is with Sebastian. It _should_ be because he's your Master of Instruction, but obviously, that's not a problem for you."

"Obviously."

"So, has Sebastian been seeing anyone else since your argument?"

"I don't think so."

"What does that tell you?"

"I don't know what it tells me. Hell, I don't know what to do, but . . . but I miss him, Hermione."

"Then perhaps you could figure out a way to let him know that."

"You really think so? I thought that you disapproved of my seeing my Master of Instruction."

"Oh, Harry, I'd much rather that you pursued a relationship with a living man than a dead one."

~*~

Dead tired, that's how Harry felt after Hermione went up to bed and he went to the lounge. He couldn't wait to sleep, but as he approached the door, he heard someone talking in the room. Peering inside of it, he saw George sitting on the hearth. A garishly wrapped package was in his hands, and he was talking to it.

 _No, he's talking to Fred_ , Harry realised, feeling twin pangs of sadness and loss.

"And it's probably rubbish, brother, because I developed it myself, but it was . . . it was the best . . . I could do."

 _Fuck_.

George was crying. Harry hated that but wasn't sure that he should intrude. As he backed away from the door, however, George looked up and noticed him.

"Where've _you_ been?" he demanded, wiping his nose on one sleeve and sniffling loudly.

"Just . . . out for a walk."

"Not making moves on my little brother's girl, were you?" 

The ghost of a smile flitting over George's face told Harry that he was teasing. "Wouldn't dare. Ron's a much better novice than I am."

George issued a half-chuckle at that and gestured for Harry to come in, which he did, sitting down next to George on the hearth.

"So . . . what is that?" Harry asked, nodding at the present that George held.

"New Wheeze. Made it for . . . ."

"Fred."

"Yeah. It's rubbish. Everything I do's rubbish since—oh, _sod this_ ," George spat, standing abruptly and tossing the box aside.

Harry heard a clinking sound as it hit the hearth and winced, feeling out of his depth in the face of George's grief. Not knowing what else to say, he asked, "That's not going to explode or anything, is it?"

"Don't care if it _does_."

Harry moved immediately to the sofa, and George shook his head.

"No, it isn't. Sorry. I just . . . I keep thinking it'll get easier, but it doesn't. He was always here, _here_ , damn it!" he exclaimed, thumping his chest with a fist. "I hate that he isn't now, Harry. I hate . . . it."

Alarmed by George's renewed sobbing, Harry stood up and nervously clasped his shoulder, squeezing it too hard and otherwise standing there like a git. _I should_ say _something._

But there were no words that Harry knew to ease George's pain. He couldn't imagine what it must be like, being a twin and losing one's other half, and he felt horribly guilty to realise that he'd kept himself so busy with his training and his confusion over _Sebastian_ that he'd neatly avoided having to comfort anyone. 

_Arsehole_ , he thought, meaning himself. _George is_ family _, and you left him alone. Arsehole!_ Loneliness and confusion did not bring out the best in him, but Harry knew there was no excuse for withdrawing from everyone as he'd done. _I'm not the only one having a hard time of it_.

Determined to do what he could for George, he moved his free hand up to George's other shoulder, and squeezed it rather too tightly, as well, saying, "I doubt it's rubbish."

"Wha—at?"

"Your gift for Fred. Bet he'd love it, bet he'd be chuffed to know you were making new Wheezes again."

George blinked rapidly and snorted, clearing his throat before breaking away from Harry to spit into the fire. "P'raps. Maybe. I don't know. . . . Want to see it?"

"Sure."

While George sat down to unwrap the package's trimmings with shaking hands, Harry thought about Snape. He supposed that he vaguely understood what George was feeling to have lost Fred because Snape had been _his_ constant, always there since he was a kid, glaring and shouting and hating. It wasn't the same, of course; Fred and George had loved each other, but for Harry, Snape had been as much a part of his life as Fred had been a part of George's. 

_How do you accept that kind of loss? And what if . . . what if it's not the loss, but of what it means to hold onto it?_

That was it, wasn't it? He'd been so determined not to think about, well, _everything_ that he'd focussed all his energy on Snape and the mystery of Sebastian instead of dealing with his own pain—and helping his family and friends deal with _theirs_.

 _I really am an arsehole_ , he told himself, as George finally got the present open.

"Here," he said, handing Harry two small, plain beige cloth dolls, an Every Colour Inkpot, a quill, and a square bit of parchment.

"What's this, then?"

"It's . . . it's stupid."

"George."

"They're . . . friendship dolls. You paint one to represent yourself, and one to look like someone . . . you miss, and . . . and then you . . . you fill the dolls' bellies with something like hair from each person and . . . ."

"Cast the spell on the parchment, which," Harry said, scanning the spell, "makes the dolls come alive?"

"But only in the same way that Chocolate Frog cards do."

 _Oh, Merlin. George . . . ._ "So that you and your . . . friend can . . . always be together," Harry whispered, as his eyes stung.

George nodded. "Rubbish."

"I think it's brilliant," Harry said, blinking rapidly.

"You're an idiot, then. Fred would have _hated_ it."

"Fred," Harry replied, as he sat down next to George again, "would have painted himself and some bird and spent hours posing the dolls in filthy positions."

Unexpectedly, George burst out laughing. "Fuck, oh . . . fuck, Harry. That's _exactly_ what he . . . would have done!"

Harry rubbed George's back lightly as his laughter gave way to tears and until his tears finally subsided. "Christmas is hard," he whispered, once George was breathing steadily.

"Shouldn't be."

"Won't be, not always."

"P'raps."

"And you know, I think you're wrong about Fred," Harry whispered, turning to face George so that he could lay a hand over his heart. "I think . . . I think he's still _here_."

George spluttered. "Don't be such a _girl_."

Stung, Harry tried to pull away his hand, but George grabbed his forearm and wouldn't let him. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Sorry," George said finally, releasing Harry's arm. "And . . . and thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Won't," George told him, gathering up the components of his Wheeze and leaving the room.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and stood up, only to throw himself down on the sofa in emotional exhaustion. He'd had entirely too much of talking, but none of it with the person who'd been foremost on his mind.

_Wonder what Sebastian's doing for the hols?_

He expected that it wasn't thinking of him.

~*~

Harry discovered differently, however, later that morning as he, the Weasleys, Hermione, and Neville sat around the Christmas tree after opening presents and a knock fell upon the front door.

"Now who could that be?" Mrs Weasley asked, going to answer it.

"Probably Muriel," said Mr Weasley, taking another biscuit from the tray levitating by his chair and popping it into his mouth.

The room quieted down as they listened to Mrs Weasley greet the guest, who spoke too quietly to be heard. "Oh, yes, Bill said that . . . . No, not at all! . . . Happy Christmas! . . . Come in, come in!"

"Oh, excellent! He could come," Bill said, rising as his mother returned to the room.

Ron and Harry shared a confused glance as she stopped just inside the door. "Well, here's a nice surprise! It's Master Sharpe, Bill's friend," she said, stepping aside to let the man enter the room. 

"Sebastian, please," he said, favouring them all with a grin.

His eyes rested on Harry for half a heartbeat longer than anyone else, and Harry's stomach clenched with nerves.

The moment was broken when Bill greeted Sebastian with, "Happy Christmas, Sharpe!" They shook hands. "You remember Fleur, of course?"

 _How? How could he remember Fleur?_ Harry wondered.

"Sharpe and I last worked together on a rather nasty piece of work at the wizarding wing of the Louvre two summers back," Bill explained, to which Sebastian replied, "Yes, and that was just the curator of Cursed Objects. The object in question wasn't nearly as awful."

Everyone laughed. Surreptitiously, Harry pinched himself. 

_Nope. Not dreaming._

"Should've known there'd be no escaping him, even over the hols," Ron whispered, although he didn't sound annoyed at all.

"Where shall I put these?" Sebastian asked, indicating a small, apparently full sack that he was carrying and opening it to reveal the presents it contained.

"How 'bout directly into our hands, sir?" Ron asked.

Snorting over Mrs Weasley's protestations that gifts hadn't been necessary, Sebastian proceeded to pass out small boxes to everyone. "I couldn't have trespassed on your hospitality without showing my gratitude, now could I have?"

Bill laughed. "Good man!"

"Oh, zees are from my favourite chocolatier at 'ome. Zhank you," Fleur said, as she unwrapped her present.

Harry found that he also had chocolates, but rather than the intricately carved flowers that Fleur, Mrs Weasley, and Ginny had received, his were gold lions.

"Mr Longbottom, let me shake your hand," Sebastian said then, and Neville, his eyes wide, accepted the man's hand. "Bill mentioned you might be here." Looking at Ginny, Sebastian continued, "With such an inducement, it's no wonder."

Ginny wrapped her arm around Neville's waist and beamed at Sebastian. "It's lovely to meet you."

"It's an honour to meet you, Miss Weasley, and you, Mr Longbottom. I've read a great deal about your time at Hogwarts during the war, very brave, both of you."

Hermione caught Harry's eye and mouthed, "That's _not_ Severus Snape."

"Well, since you've come bearing gifts—Arthur! That's _my_ chocolate," Mrs Weasley said, Summoning her gift and turning back to Sebastian—"it's only right that you should receive one," she continued, handing Sebastian an obviously hastily re-wrapped present.

Ginny giggled, and Neville smiled at her as if he, too, knew what was coming. Harry supposed that he probably did. He was surprised to find that he didn't mind it . . . much.

Making a half-hearted protestation, Sebastian nevertheless opened his gift and laughed. Pulling a still moving knitting needle from the jumper, he said, "I believe this is yours, madam."

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, snatching the knitting needle away. "Well, Bill didn't know your size, but I think the length I've just added should do it."

Sebastian shook out the dark blue jumper he'd removed from the tissue paper and pulled it on. "I'd say that it fits beautifully, and this is a delightful orange ess," he said, holding up the front of the jumper and admiring it.

"Happy Christmas!" everyone exclaimed, almost as one.

Everyone but Harry, who was too gobsmacked to speak, and George and Charlie, who were mock fighting with their chocolate confections, jostling Percy in the process. 

Sniffing at them, Percy asked Sebastian, who had lowered himself to the floor looking as if he'd always been a part of Weasley Christmas, "So, have you worked much with Bill?"

Bill snorted.

"What's so funny?" 

"Nothing, Perce," said Bill, "it's just that work is _play_ with Sharpe, here."

 _It is?_ Harry thought, for such was not his impression of Sebastian from training.

"Well, most curses are puzzles of a sort, and I do enjoy puzzles."

Percy frowned. "I'd hardly call curses puzzles."

"Perhaps not," Sebastian said, his expression sobering. "It's just that, as a boy, I endured a rather long, tedious apprenticeship in the history of . . . magical warfare and its related arts, shall we say, and thinking about those subjects as puzzles was better than dwelling on their true nature, especially once my second master provided me with a deeper understanding of them."

Harry and Hermione shared a significant glance. 

"So what you're saying," she said, her tone neutral, "is that scholarship is boring?"

"Not at all, Miss Granger, but too much immersion in certain subjects can be . . . draining. There's a refreshing ethical simplicity to curse-breaking that I find very satisfying."

"How do you like being your own master?" Ron asked.

"It has its advantages," Sebastian replied, his eyes resting on Harry briefly before smirking at Ron.

"Right, like torturing your own novices."

"Knowing what I do of what you might face in your work, it's my pleasure to help you prepare for it. But come! This isn't a particularly festive topic, is it?" Sebastian said, turning to Mrs Weasley. "How may I be of use to you, Molly? I'm a fair hand in the kitchen."

Somehow, Sebastian managed to persuade Mrs Weasley to allow him to help her, and everyone who didn't follow them into the kitchen broke apart into separate conversations. 

"Harry!" Ron hissed, nudging him, "Master Sharpe studied under Dark wizards!"

"Be that as it may, there's nothing off about him," Bill said.

"I don't think that Ron meant to imply otherwise."

"I know, Hermione, and I'll admit that I don't actually know much about Sharpe's early studies. He and I were Potions partners at school, but we didn't become friends until we began working together occasionally."

"Why not?" Ron asked.

"Sharpe's a Slytherin," Harry said, and Bill nodded.

"I'm glad you became friends with him in spite of that," Hermione said. "Everyone needs friends."

"Oh, Sharpe had plenty of friends—acquaintances, at any rate—at Hogwarts," Bill told her. "He was rather popular, if aloof in many ways."

Fleur took his arm. "Well, cheerful company opens ze tongue. Come, let's join your friend."

Harry bit into a lion head and frowned as Fleur pulled Bill away. "Cheerful company"—he expected that "Sebastian" had never had much of that. _He did say that he wanted things to be different this time_ , Harry thought, aching to remember the first time he'd fallen asleep in Sebastian's arms. 

His prick twitched at this line of thought, and he was relieved when Ron declared that a little pre-dinner Quidditch would be in order because getting hard under the Christmas tree definitely wasn't something that he needed. 

Frustrated and confused, Harry made a point of avoiding Sebastian as best he could for the rest of the afternoon.

~*~

After dinner, which had been undeniably all the more enjoyable for Sebastian's cheerful presence—no matter how much his cheer seemed to be aided by his ever-present phial—Harry found himself doing the washing up with Ron and their Master of Instruction.

"So many dishes!" Ron grumbled—again.

Sebastian chuckled. "Perhaps you should see to your girlfriend. I'm sure that Novice Potter and I can manage the rest of these."

 _Damn_ , Harry thought, nervously scouring a plate and hoping that Ron would refuse. 

But Ron was already drying his hands. "Thanks, sir. Don't mind if I do."

Harry swallowed down his rising nerves and said nothing as Ron left them.

"Are you enjoying your hols?" Sebastian asked after a moment, his fingers brushing Harry's as he took a clean, wet plate from him and began to dry it.

Harry nodded, and then he realised that Sebastian wouldn't have been able to see the gesture as they were standing side by side. When he looked up, however, he saw in the dark, reflective window that Sebastian was regarding him closely.

"It's good to finally have you to myself," he said to Harry's reflection.

"M—Master Sharpe," Harry stammered, unable to think of anything else to say.

"We're alone, so it's Sebastian, remember?" he asked, before pulling his phial from a pocket and sipping from it.

 _Just how harmful_ is _that?_ Harry wondered, not sure if Sebastian were taking Polyjuice, Firebright Elixir, or, as he'd come to suspect, his own mixture of the two potions. 

Sebastian appeared to understand his concern as he said, "It's perfectly innocuous. . . . I brewed it myself."

His mocking tone set Harry's already taxed nerves more on edge, but he refused to rise to the bait. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said, "Except that you wouldn't be as charming without it."

"Quite right, and I find that I enjoy being charming."

 _I expect you do, all the better not to be despised in your new life_. "Then congratulations. Everyone seems to enjoy your being charming."

" _Everyone_?" Sebastian asked, turning to lean against the edge of the counter.

"I think I'd like you better if I could trust your charm. That," Harry said, nodding at the phial that Sebastian still held, "can't be good for you."

"Perhaps you'd like a sip to reassure yourself I'm not doing myself a harm?"

Harry shook his head and clutched the edge of the sink. "As it happens, I do know what Polyjuice tastes like."

"Yes, but have you ever tried Firebright Elixir?" Sebastian asked, holding the phial out to Harry. "In small doses, it's really rather stimulating."

Harry shivered at the invitation in Sebastian's tone and squeezed the edge of the sink harder, determined not to allow Sebastian to provoke him to anger—or to anything else. _Not like this. Not when he can't even be himself._ "No," he said hoarsely, "thank you."

Sebastian returned the potion to his pocket. "Does your refusal to test me mean that you've put all that," he waved a hand, "Snape-related nonsense behind you?"

"Does the fact that you're here mean that your impulse control is as bad as ever?" Harry snapped.

As if he hadn't heard the warning in Harry's tone, Sebastian grinned and replied, "What's the harm in indulging that failing if it's brought me here to you? I've missed you."

Harry relaxed his grip on the edge of the sink and sighed. "What's so . . . intriguing about me?"

Sebastian's expression sobered. "I have a thing for moody young men, always have had," he whispered. 

Harry drew in a long breath. In one of Snape's letters, he'd called Regulus his "moody young man," and Harry found that he objected to the comparison being drawn between himself and "Sebastian's" dead male lover. "That's hardly flattering. I could be any moody someone to you."

"But you're not."

"Who am I, then?"

"You're . . . the person with whom I wanted to spend Christmas. Isn't it obvious?" Sebastian's mouth curved into a slight, hopeful yet uncertain smile, and Harry couldn't deny its charm. 

He raised his eyes to Sebastian's; they weren't Snape's eyes. No, they were liquid shining brown and beautiful, and Harry felt mesmerised by them. It would be so easy to stop thinking, stop doubting, and just drown in them, but that wasn't enough to make him relinquish his "Snape-related nonsense." It couldn't be, not as it occurred to him that while it didn't matter to him _who_ Sebastian really was, it did matter to him that Sebastian understand with whom _he_ was.

 _I don't want to be anyone's succedaneum, either_. "Sebastian, nothing's obvious to me where you're concerned."

"I'm not so very complicated," he replied, pushing off the counter and turning Harry to face him, "and I thought I'd made my desires plain."

"T—ry again?" Harry asked, stuttering at the caress of Sebastian's thumb against his lower lip.

"In general, I want what most people do—to be useful, to be respected, to have friends, to love and . . . be loved in return."

The caressing thumb was maddening, and Harry found himself leaning into it, his resolve weakening.

"And in particular, I want _you_."

 _Merlin, I wish that were true_. "Then why . . . why won't you trust me?"

"What makes you think that I don't?" Sebastian asked, frowning.

Harry closed his eyes against the intensity of Sebastian's expression, the sudden, irrational urge to shout filling him. _Because you've no reason to want me, not me, not quite this much_. Mastering his sadness, he whispered, "I really like you. You've no idea how much, but I can't—"

"Don't," Sebastian interrupted, his expression blanking but for the glimmer of fear in his eyes as he dropped his hands to his sides. "Please don't say 'can't'."

"I _can't_ , Harry mercilessly continued, sliding one hand into Sebastian's trouser pocket to remove his phial and holding it up between them, "love someone who's hiding from himself." He stepped back. "Hide from the world if you must—I don't care about that anymore—but don't hide from me. Don't pretend with _me_. It's not something that I can accept."

"And why not?" Sebastian demanded, his expression darkening. "Have you so many other better options that you're free to reject the offer of a charming, attractive companion and _excellent_ sex?"

Harry shook his head. "Your charm comes from a bottle."

"So what if it does? So fucking what? Do you . . . do you truly believe that _Weasley_ is ever going to make good your every wank fantasy where he's concerned?"

Harry started at this non sequitur, the memory of one particularly horrifying 'Remedial Potions' lesson coming to mind, but he shook off his embarrassment; he did have a thing for Weasleys, that was true. _But I haven't been in love with Ron for ages_. "Ron's got nothing to do with this, you git, but now I know—"

"You spent a great deal of time with him today. You were sitting with him when I arrived, and then there was Quidditch, and you avoided—"

"Ron's my _family_ , you arse! He's my training partner and my best mate—he's not _you_."

"And who am I?" Sebastian challenged him.

"Well, you're sure as hell not Severus Snape, are you?"

"Oh, and how have you come to this astonishing realisation?" Sebastian hissed, his fists clenching.

"Because even being the miserable bastard that he was, _he_ never threw those memories of Ron in my face." 

Sebastian appeared stricken, but Harry didn't relent.

"You're really going to have to try harder to hide, I think, because what's in that phial of yours is never going to give you what you _truly_ need. Hell, even _you_ couldn't brew enough of it to save yourself."

"Brew enough of _what_?"

" _Courage_."

"How _dare_ —"

"And Snape never even had to _try_ ," Harry pressed, more sure of himself, now. "Snape was brave, full stop. I don't know _what_ the hell you are, but I know you're _not_ someone I can love."

Sebastian reached for Harry, his hands trembling, but then abruptly dropped them again. "You aren't supposed to . . . this isn't how . . . _fuck_. You don't know half as much about Snape as you _think_ you do!"

"You're right. I just know what he wanted me to know about him—what I could glean about him from a chest full of mementoes—but it's been enough to prove to me that you're not him. You couldn't possibly be him because . . . because Severus Snape is _dead_."

~*~

Whatever Sebastian might have said was lost as the kitchen door opened and Fleur and Bill entered the Burrow, stopping short at the sight of them.

"Oh, 'ave we interrupted—"

Harry watched in horrified fascination as Sebastian's rigid posture liquified and he made Fleur a deep bow. 

Rising, he told her, "Snow-kissed cheeks only add to your beauty, madam, and I'm pleased to have been able to see you this way before taking my leave."

"Sorry to see you go, old man," Bill replied, while Fleur giggled and they made their goodbyes.

Unable to endure any further pretense, Harry stalked up the back stairs to the second floor and sat down on the landing, breathing heavily. He was relieved when he finally heard Bill, Fleur, and Sebastian leave the kitchen and hoped that he'd have a moment to compose himself before _he_ had to say goodnight to everyone.

"Harry?"

"Fuck!" Harry, exclaimed, turning to find Bill behind him. "You startled me."

"Wouldn't have guessed," he replied, sitting down. "So . . . no goodbye for your Master of Instruction?"

Harry looked away. "Already did that."

"Sounded more like a fight to me."

 _Shite_. "What did you hear?" he whispered, too embarrassed to look at Bill.

"Just enough to make a few assumptions."

Harry swallowed but said nothing as he heard Bill mumble a charm.

"That's better. There are too many eager ears in this house."

Harry huffed and crossed his arms. "We don't have to talk—"

"Assumption one," Bill interrupted. "Sharpe's more to you than an instructor."

"Damn it."

"Assumption two: he's jealous of your preoccupation with honouring Snape."

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, relieved breath to know that Bill really hadn't heard that much. As disgusted with Sebastian as he was, it wasn't up to him to share his secret.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Too bad."

Harry glared at Bill.

"You know, you and Ron have the exact same glare—it's very effective, really."

"Bill."

"Right, no teasing. Would you like to know about Fleur's rather interesting idea about your preoccupation?" 

"Were you all just talking about me?" Harry asked, uncurling from himself and preparing to bolt. 

"Relax, Harry. It was just Fleur and me."

"Oh," he said, settling back down on the landing. "Well, what is it, then?"

"Fleur would have it that you blame yourself for Snape's death."

Harry swore under his breath.

Ignoring him, Bill continued, "She also believes that it's guilt driving you to see him honoured. She's right, isn't she?"

Harry looked down at his hands and laced his fingers together, squeezing them hard. "I let him die, Bill."

"You did no such thing, you bloody idiot."

His head snapping up again, Harry said, "You don't know—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. What could you have possibly done with Voldemort standing there?"

"But he left! He left and . . . and all I did was take Snape's memories and watch him _die_. And for that, for _that_ , people call me a hero! They put up statues and plaques and paintings! They never think of what _Snape_ did. It's not right!"

Bill raised a hand in a placating gesture. "So that explains why Sharpe was shouting about your not knowing that much about Snape. He's jealous."

"He wants me to stop. Trying to honour Snape, I mean. He . . . he doesn't understand."

"I'm not sure I do, either. Perhaps you should stop."

"How can you say that?"

Bill gave Harry's leg a pat, and stood up to stretch, yawning. "Look," he said, glancing down at him, "I don't know that much about Sharpe's apprenticeships, but I do know that they were hard on him. He's fascinated by Dark magic, but he hates it, too, no matter how he tries to hide that with jokes and charm. I've worked with him maybe five times, and I've never seen a curse-breaker more determined to destroy evil than he is."

"I don't understand how he could feel that way after having been apprenticed to Dark wizards."

"Neither do I, but he has my respect for getting himself out of an ugly situation and doing right by himself, even if he's not exactly doing right by you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He's your Master of Instruction, Harry. It's . . . I can't say as I approve of him involving himself with you."

Harry stood up. "That's really none of your business."

"True enough, but you're family, which makes you my business."

"Bill, I—"

"Need to forgive yourself, or you're never going to move on—with anyone."

"Great, everyone's an expert on me now."

"Don't be an arse. You know I'm right. And in case no one's made it clear to you, you did enough, Harry. You did more than anyone should have asked you to, and you deserve to be happy."

"Just not with Sharpe, yeah?"

"Not my place to say."

"Look, I don't know what's going to happen between Sharpe and me, but I can't stand the thought of Snape not being properly honoured after everything he did."

"So honour his memory by living the life he tried so hard to save. I expect that's what he would have wanted for you."

Harry snorted. "Right, like he gave a damn about my happiness. Snape hated me."

"Snape hated himself. He hated himself for the choices he made and the bitterness of his life because of those choices."

"Even if what you're saying is true, I don't think it's wrong to try to honour him for his _right_ choices."

"Even if guilt is truly what's motivating you? It was never your job to save Snape, Harry. You were just a kid. And no matter how hard you try, you can't save a dead man—or a living one who might be too much in love with his phial to love anyone else."

"You know about that?" Harry asked, leaning back against the railing and running a hand through his hair.

"Plenty of curse-breakers take to Firebright, but it's a right bitch. I've never met anyone who could stop taking it. There's a reason it's a banned potion. There's a reason that people addicted to Firebright tend to form . . . fleeting, intense attachments."

Harry flushed. "You think that's all I am to Sebastian?"

"I don't know what you are to him, but I wonder . . . ."

"About what?"

"If Sharpe's being just a bit forbidden and awfully heroic isn't more a draw to you than it should be. You did fancy Snape, didn't you?"

"Damn it, why does everyone—"

"All of us fancied our professors. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but you're not a kid, anymore."

"Your point?"

"That a mature decision on your part would be not taking a lover because he reminds you of someone else."

Bill's words hit too close to the mark, and Harry suddenly worried that he'd overheard more than he'd admitted.

"Let Snape go, Harry. It's not as if he's around to give a shite about statues and the like, is it?"


	3. Chapter 3

Harry found himself contemplating questions other than Bill's as he flew over Ottery St. Catchpole after everyone had gone to bed.

_Why did I tell Sebastian that I couldn't love him?_

He jerked his broom handle abruptly upwards and made a series of backwards loops before dizziness caused him to right himself again.

_Why did I say that when I knew it wasn't true? There's something between us now, something that I don't want to lose, but . . . ._

Harry didn't understand how one person could split himself apart so completely. The entire time that Snape had been a bastard to him at Hogwarts, the man had been protecting him. Master Sharpe was demanding during training, but _Sebastian_ was affectionate and fun in private.

_Is it all to do with the Firebright?_

Harry didn't think so. Snape had never shown any signs of using the potion at Hogwarts. Of course, he'd never displayed one ounce of sexual interest in Harry while his teacher, either, and Sebastian was clearly interested in him. But use of the elixir couldn't explain that interest; it had been there from the moment they'd first kissed—before it.

 _It wasn't a coincidence, Grapplethorpe's choosing Sharpe to be my curse-breaker_.

As much as Harry didn't want this to mean that Snape had arranged matters as he had because he looked on him as a replacement for his mother or Regulus, Harry had to consider it, but he didn't consider it for long.

_Perhaps it's just that generally, I've got something in common with Mum and Regulus, something that both Snape and Sebastian like._

Thinking this was better than feeling as if he were a substitute, and loads of people had types. He had one, himself—Weasleys and red hair.

_Merlin, Sebastian's hair._

From their Occlumency lessons, Snape would have known about Harry's crush on Bill, just as he'd known about his crush on Ron. For a moment, the inherent creepiness of this fact overwhelmed Harry, and he began to fly erratically; it took him more time than it should have to regain control of his broom.

When he was flying steadily again, he thought, _There are no coincidences here. He turned himself into someone I'd have to like, so . . . so why the hell does he need the Firebright to face me?_

The answer to that was simple, he supposed: the Firebright had nothing to do with him. It was Snape's way of coping with his transformation into someone new.

It was awful to think about that. Even though Snape had tried to make right the wrong he'd done, even though he hadn't run away from his mistakes before he'd done everything within his power to correct them, he'd still had to invent an entirely new persona in order to escape his past because there was no one left to forgive him.

_He drove Mum away by choosing to join the Death Eaters, and those people could hardly have been his friends. At the end, there was no one there to help him._

No wonder he'd become Sebastian. 

_No wonder he took to the Firebright. He's still himself, no matter how much he wants to be Sebastian, and . . . and he can't move on because he hasn't let go of Snape anymore than I have. Merlin, we're both hiding, aren't we?_

Snape was hiding in Sebastian, and Harry was hiding in activity—his Auror training kept him away from the public, but it also meant that he didn't have to think about his past or his future; he'd just been going on as expected. He supposed that Snape still really must want to teach Defence because training novices was practically the same thing, but Harry no longer knew if being an Auror was the right choice for him. Like Hermione, he found the prospect of an adventurous future a bit too much to contemplate; yet, he'd said nothing of that when Ron had told him about their having been invited to join the programme.

_And Snape knew I'd join, didn't he? Is . . . is he still trying to protect me?_

Harry didn't know; it wasn't the sort of thing he could very well ask Sebastian, either.

 _Fuck, this is tiresome_.

Suddenly finding his train of thought too convoluted and exhausting to contemplate further, Harry stopped flying and looked down; he realised that he was very close to where Luna lived.

_I should have spent more time with her yesterday._

Of course, there was still time for that, wasn't there? Harry knew that Luna would still be awake; she loved Christmas. She'd always said that it wasn't over until one fell asleep.

_She'll probably still be awake, taking Christmas treats to gnomes and thinking about everything good._

Luna was like that; no matter what unpleasant things happened to her, she was always prepared to dwell on the pleasant and the possible—and she lived her own life, not the life other people thought she should have. 

_She never hides from anything, does she?_

~*~

"Harry!" Luna exclaimed, as she greeted him at her "door."

Unlike Hogwarts, which had undergone extensive, if incomplete, repairs, Luna's home was still half-built. While the repairs were being made, she and her father were making due with a reinforced tent. She was walking out of it as Harry came down to land.

"Happy Christmas! Why are you here? Is it Nargles?"

"No, it's just Potter's dreadful timing."

" _Malfoy_?" 

Malfoy stepped out of the tent after Luna, scowling. "Obviously."

"Sarcasm isn't festive, Draco," Luna said lightly, although there was a warning edge to her tone that Harry had never heard before.

Malfoy sighed. "Happy Christmas, Potter."

Gobsmacked, Harry mumbled the same thing back.

"So much better," Luna praised Malfoy, and Harry was stunned to see him flush. Turning to Harry, Luna continued, "Draco's been coming 'round trying to ease his guilt by being nice to me—and get me to shag him, too, I thi—"

"Luna!"

Harry snickered at Malfoy's embarrassment in spite of his shock to see him there. 

"Be nice, Harry. It's been very hard for him."

Harry burst out laughing. "I'll bet . . . it's been . . . hard." 

His laughter was abruptly cut off by Malfoy's punch to his gut, but he recovered quickly. His first swing missed the bastard, but his second connected, and then he and Malfoy were grappling furiously with each other—until everything went cold and slow, and he discovered that they'd both been encased in large snowballs.

"He started it!" Malfoy shouted.

"You hit _me_!"

"You laughed!"

"Luna?" Mr Lovegood asked, coming to the door. "Oh," he said, as he noticed Harry and Malfoy's condition. "I see. Fighting over you, dear? How flattering. Happy Christmas, Harry."

Harry looked at Malfoy, who, after a furtive glance in Luna's direction, shook his head in disgust as Mr Lovegood returned to the tent. With his eyes on Malfoy, Harry was startled when he felt something press against his lips.

"Pth! Luna, I don't _want_ a carrot!"

"But snowmen always have carrots, and I'd like a picture. You're both adorable this way."

"No pictures!" Harry and Malfoy exclaimed as one.

"Fine," Luna told them, "but you'll just have to wait as you are until I've taken this carrot to the Gernumblies. I'm not wasting a good carrot."

With that, she disappeared from Harry's line of sight.

"Wonderful. _Just_ how I wanted to spend the end of Christmas," Malfoy muttered.

"Damn it, I think she's iced this," Harry said, struggling within his snowman prison.

"She's good with charms, brilliant, really."

Harry raised an eyebrow at Malfoy's tone. _Merlin, he really likes her_. That was . . . wrong. Malfoy had no right to be seeing Luna, or admiring anything about her. "You can't be serious."

"I most certainly am. Most of the construction charms are hers, and—"

"If you hurt her, I kill you."

"Don't make me put hats on you!" Luna called.

"Fuck," Harry muttered, as Malfoy called back, "We're fine, Lu, really!"

 _Lu? Oh, that's just . . . so very wrong—and it's my fault, isn't it? If I'd spent more time with Luna, Malfoy would never have been able to get his hooks into her_. Glaring at him, Harry whispered, "Just so you know, I meant what I said."

"Consider me suitably warned, Snow Potter."

 _Arsehole_.

"Why are you here, anyway?"

Harry ignored him. "This is really cold."

Malfoy snorted. "You think?"

"I think she's going to leave us like this until we apologise."

"Well, get used to being cold then—and stay away from my girl."

"Your what? I don't think so. Luna's _my_ friend."

"Which is why you didn't say more than what, three words to her after yesterday's debacle? Some friend."

"I tried, but the press—"

"Was too much for our ickle hero?"

"If you were there, then you know—look, Malfoy, is Luna all right or isn't she?"

"She's fine," Luna said, from behind them, "but she wishes that you _were_ sorry for being so mean to each other."

Harry sighed as Luna came into view. "I really am sorry about the statue."

"I know. Everyone was."

"Not everyone," said Malfoy.

"Well," Luna replied, pointing her wand at them and flicking it sharply left and then right, "not everyone's forgiven the professor."

Harry found himself able to curl his stiff fingers, and he began twisting in the melting snow to release himself. Malfoy did the same. 

"Are you very cold, Draco?"

"Terribly, awfully cold, Lu," he murmured, as she stepped up to him.

"Hey, I'm cold, too." 

Without looking at him, Luna twitched her wand in Harry's direction, and a warm rush of heat rolled over and dried him.

"Don't I get a warming charm?" Malfoy asked.

"Do you really think of me as your girl?"

"Lu," Malfoy said, shifting from one foot to the other and rubbing his arms, "Potter's standing right _there_."

"I know. He's worried about me. I told you he'd come. Answer my question."

Luna and Malfoy stared at each other until Malfoy reached out to caress Luna's face. Apparently, this was enough of an answer for her; Harry had never seen such a beatific smile. 

"Er, Luna?" he asked, feeling incredibly out of place and watching in quiet horror as she wrapped her arms around Malfoy.

Malfoy seemed to have forgotten that Harry was there, his gaze was so intent upon Luna's.

"Now that you've come, Harry, you see I'm all right?"

Harry saw no such thing, but he'd had enough of fighting for one night. "Yeah, I . . . I guess."

"Good, because I need to make sure that Draco gets warm . . . privately, it seems. See you again soon?"

"Not too soon, I hope," Malfoy whispered hoarsely—against Luna's lips.

Thoroughly out of sorts to be thus dismissed, Harry Summoned his broom and again took flight.

~*~

Harry flew low as he returned to the Burrow, coming to land on the other side of the hedge that formed the border of the back garden. He was surprised to hear voices coming from within. Walking around to that part of the fence that had an eye-hole, he peered inside to see Bill and Sebastian sitting at the table that the Weasleys sometimes used when their company was too large to eat comfortably in the kitchen; snow had melted around it, indicating that the two men had been sitting there for some time thanks to a warming charm. They seemed at ease—both of them were leaning back in their chairs and resting their feet on the table—so Harry's initial suspicion that they'd been discussing him faded.

"Why'd Brent retire, anyway?" Bill asked Sebastian, flicking his wand at the flask that sat between them and making it pour what looked to be coffee into his mug.

Sebastian shrugged. "Said it was time."

"Why you, Sharpe?"

Sebastian looked away from Bill to stare into the mug that was resting in his lap. "Morecrafte."

 _Who's Morecrafte?_ Harry wondered.

"Ah," said Bill. "The boys were wondering about your old masters."

"Were they?"

"Given that tantalising statement about your past, their curiosity can hardly be a surprise to you."

"I suppose not."

"Indulge mine."

"The man was an evil piece of work. What more is there to say?"

 _Loads_ , Harry thought, as Bill replied, "A lot, I should think. How did Brent know about your apprenticeships?"

"Brent had been trying for years to catch Morecrafte at his 'work'. I met him in one of the raids. He tried to save me from him, but I . . . had my family to consider."

_Family? What family? I thought Sharpe's family were dead!_

"So you what, stayed and collected what evidence you could?" Bill pressed.

"Weasley, why do you suddenly give a damn about my . . . youthful indiscretions?"

Bill snorted. "You're my age, you pillock."

"Old before my time. Morecrafte, remember?"

"And Smythe?"

Sebastian sighed. "I'd almost forgotten we'd talked about this before. Remind me never to get pissed with you again."

Bill snorted. "You're sober enough now and you're talking."

"Only an idiot tries to Apparate when . . . inebriated."

 _Inebriated. Right. High, more like it_. Harry's conscience pricked him, then, because Sebastian didn't appear to be making use of his phial.

"Glad you came back. We can always make more room here."

"Interesting architecture, very homey," Sebastian replied, his tone light.

"So, Smythe?"

"Was a despicable piece of shite, but he was nothing to Morecrafte. When Morecrafte destroyed Smythe and took his holdings, I made him believe that I was never loyal to my old master. I lied to him about my parents and sister, told him that Morecrafte had killed them. He believed me, and after I cooperated with him in the retrieval of the artifact he'd come for, he decreed that I showed potential and should study under him."

"What happened to your family?"

"They're still hidden under Fidelius, at least, I hope so."

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry to have whinged about it to you."

"We don't have to—"

"No, it's fine. I . . . don't mind telling you."

Bill said nothing while Sebastian drained his mug and set it aside.

"When Mother arranged matters, I was too young to become their Secret Keeper. She came to me before she and my sister disappeared to tell me that she'd left my father, that she was sorry to be leaving me, but even though she told me to whom I could apply for her location, I think that she . . . I knew that she was afraid of me. I could tell that she was hoping I'd never try to find her."

"Damn, Sharpe."

"Damn my father. It was his doing that put us all in harm's way. He's the one who sold me to Smythe."

" _Sold you_?"

It was hard to see everything through the eye-hole, but Harry could hear the horror in Bill's tone. He felt it, himself.

"Still curious?"

"I am, if you're still willing to talk."

"No one's ever asked before, you know."

"Perhaps someone should have."

"Perhaps. So, the raid. Brent. He wanted, well, obviously, he wanted my testimony against Morecrafte. He wanted to know how I'd come to serve him, and I couldn't very well tell him that my father had sold me to a Dark wizard and my mother had done nothing to stop him. I've . . . I've never blamed Mother."

"But under Fidelius, she and your sister couldn't have been found."

"I was nine-years-old. I thought that, Morecrafte had told me that, the Aurors used torture to extract information from 'witnesses'. I thought I'd break under it, reveal my family's Secret Keeper, and I didn't have any proof, you understand. I'd only been with Morecrafte for a little under a year. He'd not yet taught me anything I could attest to as being Dark, but he had ensured that he had the appropriate paperwork to keep me. I felt trapped."

"You were trapped."

Harry, listening intently, felt ill. _That poor bastard_.

"Yes, well . . . . I fought with the Aurors, screamed at them to leave us alone, and that satisfied my master as to my loyalties. He gave me more freedom after that, began to tell me more about the true nature of his work, and then . . . ."

_And then, what?_

The way Sebastian was speaking, it was impossible to believe that what he was saying had happened to someone else, no matter that Harry knew otherwise.

"And then?" Bill prompted.

"Shortly before my tenth birthday, I met Severus Snape."

_What?_

"Did you?"

"I suspect that Brent spoke to Dumbledore about me. They were friends. I was collecting a valuable specimen of rare herb for Morecrafte one night, and Snape approached me. He told me that Dumbledore was willing to offer me protection in exchange for helping Brent apprehend the man while engaged in illegal activity."

"Why would Dumbledore have done that?"

"Because Elias Morecrafte was sympathetic to Lord Voldemort's cause, if unwilling to follow anyone other than himself. He'd been working on a spell to destroy 'impurities' of the blood, and he'd provided safe haven to more than one Death Eater in my time with him. . . . He liked to show off."

"So Voldemort knew of his activities?"

"Yes, and he wanted that spell."

"And Dumbledore would have learnt about it from Snape."

"Yes."

"So that's when you started spying for Dumbledore?"

"Oh, I never spied for Albus Dumbledore, Weasley. I knew about Snape, what he was. He and other Death Eaters had been guests of Morecrafte in the past, and what they discussed . . . . No, I thought Dumbledore was a fool to trust Snape, and I couldn't bring myself to trust either of them."

Harry frowned. _Even if Snape's the one who saved you?_ He shook himself. _That is Snape, and he . . . I'll bet he's the one who persuaded Dumbledore to try and help the real Sebastian._

"And Brent?" asked Bill. 

"Brent never gave up on me. It came out after . . . Voldemort murdered the Potters that Morecrafte was a sympathiser, and that was enough at that time for the Wizengamot to direct the DMLE to apprehend him. He escaped during the raid, and so vile was his work and the fact that the Aurors had failed to stop it that the incident was kept out of the public record."

"What happened to you?"

"Brent had me declared his ward and then sent me to Hogwarts. Having lived with Smythe since my seventh birthday, and then with Morecrafte, I flourished there. You remember what an arrogant sod I was," Sebastian said, rueful amusement colouring his tone.

"You weren't so bad."

"I was insufferable, as Snape never tired of telling me, but my time at Hogwarts was . . . well, it was then that I became interested in curse-breaking, as you know, and then it was off to Gringotts."

"Yes, but that still doesn't explain—"

"Why Brent elected to make me his replacement when I'd never had one minute's Auror training?"

Harry's muscles were beginning to cramp from leaning down to peer at Bill and Sebastian, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He didn't want to do anything to alert them to his presence, and he desperately wanted to learn what he could about Sebastian's past.

"I know enough that it involves Morecrafte. Billings—"

"Auror Billings?"

"Yes. He's a friend of mine, and he was on the team that took Morecrafte down."

"Ah. I was responsible for that, as well, in a way. Morecrafte found me again shortly after you introduced me to Fleur in Paris, as it happens, after I left the restaurant, and he told me he'd killed the man my mother had trusted enough to keep her secret. That was easy enough to verify."

"What did he want?"

"Supplies. Banned substances, all. He told me that he knew where my mother and sister were . . . ."

"Did you help him?"

"No. Oh, I agreed, of course, and allowed him to believe it was because I thought he'd tell me where my family was, but I knew better. I went directly to Brent, who ensured that I filled Morecrafte's 'order'."

"That was a trap."

"It was."

"And because Morecrafte was killed during the exchange, you never did find out where your mother and sister were."

"No, I didn't," Sebastian said, standing up and stretching. "And I never will find them, now. It's for the best, really. They've made their new lives. They don't need me."

Harry felt his eyes burning, and reminded himself that Sebastian—that Snape—was acting. _But the story he's telling is true, no matter that it isn't his_.

"The upshot of all of this is that Brent, with whom I never have had a conversation like this one, spent whatever time we had together while I was out of school training me as he would any novice. He seemed to think that physical activity and 'healthy' pursuits would right what ailed me." Sebastian snorted. "So you see, the best of the best turned me into a quasi-Auror, and when it came time for him to retire, he felt that by giving me his old post, it would keep me honest, give me 'structure'. Brent is a great proponent of routine making the man—and I did pass every examination the DMLE insisted that I be given."

"I never meant to imply that I thought you weren't qualified," Bill said, rising as well.

As if he hadn't heard Bill, Sebastian said, "Thank you for asking, and for your hospitality. I believe I'll have a walk through your orchard before bedding down in the attics. You're certain that Longbottom won't mind?"

Bill chuckled. "Neville won't be there to mind your company."

Harry felt his face grow hot. 

"That's a cavalier attitude to take regarding your baby sister."

"Ginny hasn't been a baby for some time. I think even Mum's beginning to appreciate that since—never mind."

"Since she threw over our Harry?"

"I wouldn't have put it quite that way, but yes. Skeeter was more bothered by the break-up than Mum."

Harry held his breath, wondering if Bill would take this opportunity to bring him up.

"Sells more papers to be scandalised, I suppose. Goodnight, Wea—goodnight, Bill."

"Goodnight, Sebastian."

The two men shook hands, and then Sebastian turned towards the back of the garden and moved out of Harry's line of sight. 

Harry sank down into the snow, overwhelmed by both Sebastian's story and his renewed admiration for Snape. He was cold and wet and stiff, hungry, too, and he had questions, but he expected that Sebastian would be in no frame of mind to answer them.

 _Or Snape_.

After what he'd just overheard, it was harder to reconcile his belief that Snape was Sebastian, especially when all he wanted to do was go to the man, whoever he was, and comfort him. 

_Everyone needs friends_.

But Snape-Sharpe, as far as Harry was concerned, needed them more than anyone he'd ever known. 

_He keeps coming back to me_ , Harry thought, pushing himself up out of the snow. _He_ needs _me._

Harry picked up his broom and crept quietly into the house.

 _My questions can wait_.

~*~

The door creaked as it opened, and Harry heard Sebastian's sharp hiss of surprise.

"Forgive the intrusion, I thought that—"

Harry rolled over so that Sebastian could see who it was lying on the bed, blinking sleepily in the candlelight.

"What are you doing here?" Sebastian asked, entering the door and closing it behind him.

"You keep coming back to me. I thought it was time I came back to you."

Sebastian moved closer to the bed, his eyes fixed on Harry's, and Harry felt a slight push against his mind.

"You overheard my conversation with Bill."

"You . . . you're a Legilimens, Sebastian."

"'Sebastian'?"

"You'd rather I called you Sever—"

" _No_."

"I . . . I can go, if you'd like."

"No, I wouldn't like that at all."

"Then come to bed," said Harry, holding out a hand in invitation.

Sebastian began to move forward but abruptly stopped. "Don't you want to ask—"

"You a thousand uncomfortable things? Hell yes, I do, but not," Harry said, rising from the bed, "now."

"What _do_ you want?"

Harry took a step towards Sebastian and reached for his hands. "Isn't it obvious?" Even in the dim light, Harry could see the bob of Sebastian's Adam's apple. "Don't be nervous. That wasn't a trick question," he whispered.

"You . . . you just want a Christmas shag."

"No," Harry replied, ignoring the bitter hollowness of Sebastian's voice. "I just want you. Come to bed. . . . Please?"

Sebastian squeezed Harry's hands once and then let them go, turning to remove his coat and lay it over a chair. Harry watched as he then sat down on it and unlaced his boots before rising to remove his trousers and carelessly toss them over his coat. He stripped off his socks with equal disregard, and then pulled down his pants and allowed them to drop to the floor. And then, after running his hands down the front of Mrs Weasley's jumper, he removed it slowly, almost reluctantly, and folded it with great care before placing it on the chair. 

The reverence with which Sebastian treated Mrs Weasley's gift made Harry's throat clench with repressed emotion. "Let me . . . help you with these," he said hoarsely, moving forward to undo the buttons of Sebastian's shirt—but Sebastian took his hands and stopped him.

"Lock the door," he murmured, "and make sure that we won't be heard."

Harry stepped out of his y-fronts before Summoning his wand, and when he'd finished casting his spells and looked at Sebastian, he was nude, as well, and un-braiding his hair. _Oh_. Harry bit his lower lip at the sight of its shining cascade over Sebastian's shoulders. _Hard and soft at once_.

"In the morning," Sebastian said, his voice almost too low to be heard, "I want you to fuck me, but now, I want . . . I need . . . ."

Harry got into bed and held up the coverlet for Sebastian, who slid in next to him and pulled him close. With his head resting against his chest, Harry could hear the hammer of Sebastian's heart; it echoed his own.

"'Bastian?"

"Hmm?"

"I know what you need."

"That's . . . that's why . . . I keep coming back to you, Harry."

~*~

Harry was dreaming. He knew that he had to be because when he'd fallen asleep, it had been in a bed, not a low-hanging hammock on a ship. There were cracks in the hull of the hold in which he found himself, and brackish, salty water was seeping through them to flood the cabin. 

_This isn't right. I'm not here_ , he told himself, shaking his head to clear it. 

A sudden lurch sent him flying, and he reached out to grab something solid and found himself clutching Sebastian's shaking, sweat-soaked, foul-smelling body. 

"Sebastian?" Harry asked, wrinkling his nose against the smell as he sat up and threw off the covers. "Sebastian?" he asked again, shaking his shoulder.

Sebastian grunted but gave no other sign of consciousness as he continued to breath shallowly. Harry rose and lit the candle, glancing out the window to see the first faint rays of dawn light. He moved to Sebastian's side of the bed and knelt by him so that he could see his face; in the candlelight, Sebastian's expression was pained, and his hair was matted against his skin, which felt hot, even though he was shivering.

_This is bad. It could be flu, but . . . but it's not, is it?_

On impulse, Harry looked through Sebastian's clothing; his Firebright phial was nowhere to be found.

"Sebastian, what did you do?" Harry asked, realising that at some point between their argument and reconciliation, his lover had got rid of his elixir. _He came back to me. He knew that I didn't want him if—_ "Shite." _Could he really have gone into withdrawal this quickly?_

From what he'd observed of Sebastian, Harry knew that he sipped from his phial approximately every half-hour, more when he was stressed. 

_And you've got to take Polyjuice every hour_ , he thought, his confusion returning because it was Sebastian Sharpe in the bed, not Severus Snape. _How is that possible?_

It didn't matter how, however, as Sebastian began convulsing. Harry moved quickly to hold Sebastian on the bed, fear seizing him. 

_What do I do?_ "Sebastian, it's all right. It's Harry. I've got you. Can you hear—"

 _Tap! Tap! Tap!_ "Er, hullo?"

" _Fuck_. Neville."

"Hullo? Is anyone in there?"

As Sebastian's tremors subsided, Harry thought about Body-Binding him but didn't do it. He wasn't sure how any spell might affect him, not given the mystery surrounding how Snape had managed to take Sebastian's form. But it was clear that he had to find help for him, help from someone he could trust to keep Sebastian's secret if he should suddenly re-transform. That person wasn't Neville.

Harry rose and dressed hastily, un-warding the door and slipping through it before Neville could see inside.

"Harry, what are—"

"Nev, listen. Master Sharpe is ill."

"Sharpe's in there? What, how—"

"He came back last night and stayed here because Bill told him that you'd be with . . . right," Harry said, as Neville blushed furiously. "Anyway, we were supposed to go for a ride this morning, but when he didn't come down to join me, I came up to check on him. He looks bad, Nev, but I don't want to embarrass him in front of the entire household."

"He's hung-over?"

"I don't think so, but—"

"You don't want Ron to see him ill?" Neville interrupted, obviously finding Harry's explanation a bit odd but seeming to accept it for all that.

Harry was grateful. "I doubt our Master of Instruction would want to appear weak before any other of his novices, you know?"

"Okay," Neville replied slowly. "Should I get Mrs Weasley?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed, before he could stop himself. "I mean, I think it would be best to get Bill. He and Sharpe are friends, after all, yeah?"

"Sure, Harry, I can do that."

"Thanks."

~*~

"Bill," Harry said, when the man appeared at the top of the stairs. "Sebastian's—"

"Ill, Neville says. Let me see him."

Harry swallowed. "He's, er, we—"

"Do you want to go dress him before I come in?"

Cursing himself for not having thought of that sooner, Harry dashed inside. "Shite!"

Bill followed him at his exclamation and closed the door. "Hold him," he ordered, even as Harry was moving to do it. "You've already set an Imperturbable?"

"Yeah," Harry acknowledged, pressing Sebastian's shoulders into the bed. "Bill, I don't think he's taken any Firebright since coming back here."

"I can tell that from the smell," Bill muttered. "Harry, I need Mum for this. I don't know how to manage someone in Firebright withdrawal. I just know the symptoms."

"We can't get your mum."

"Why not?"

Harry lay on top of Sebastian and pressed his forehead to his. "She won't understand—"

"Don't be stupid! He's ill and she'll know how to help—"

_Rap! Rap! Rap! Rap! Rap!_

"Who's that?" Harry demanded, as Bill opened the door and Sebastian began moaning loudly.

"Mum!"

"Shut the door before you wake the entire household," she said briskly, setting a basin filled with flannels and phials on the bedside table and sitting down next to Sebastian and Harry. "How long has he been taking it?"

"Mum, how do you know what he's—"

"Harry," Mrs Weasley said, drawing her wand and ignoring Bill, "how long?"

"I don't know."

"Up," she ordered, before sending linen lengths of cloth from the tip of her wand; they flew towards Sebastian and wrapped around his wrists and ankles before securing them to the bed frame.

"Nnngh," Sebastian protested, although he didn't open his eyes.

Mrs Weasley felt Sebastian's forehead, opened one of his eyes carefully and clucked at what she saw, and then swished her wand and murmured something over him. "For quite some time, I should think, given that the whites of his eyes have gone red, his skin is hot to the touch but he's without fever, and his sweat smells of dragon's dung. It's definitely Firebright withdrawal."

"How can you know that?" Bill asked, while Harry sat there feeling useless.

"When did his symptoms present, Harry?"

Bill huffed and crossed his arms.

"Er," Harry said, flushing, "I was asleep, but not that long ago."

As if she hadn't heard Harry's admission, Mrs Weasley replied, "Bill, I want you to take charge of breakfast and see to it that no one comes up here."

"All right, but do you need—"

"I have everything I need right here," Mrs Weasley said, removing her phials and other oddments from the basin before tapping it. 

It filled with water.

"What do you want me to tell people when they ask where you all are?"

"That they're not to come up here," Mrs Weasley snapped, shooing him away with one hand while passing Harry a flannel with her other one. "Get that stench off him."

Bill left, and Harry moved to the other side of the bed to take Mrs Weasley's place as she stood and began mixing powders and potions in a small bowl.

Harry's hands shook a bit as he wiped Sebastian down, discreetly sliding his hand with the flannel under the coverlet as he moved lower. Sebastian continued to shake, and he groaned occasionally, but at least his convulsions had stopped.

"How long have you and Sebastian been friends, Harry?"

Harry found Mrs Weasley's tone awfully calm and tried to take comfort in that. "Since Hogwarts reopened."

"That's nice, dear."

"It is?"

"It must be if you were up here sleeping together."

Harry's face flamed. "How did you know to come up?"

"It was Neville's face that gave it away. When he came into the kitchen, I'd already found the lounge empty, and I'd heard Bill set Sharpe up in the lounge while you were out flying."

"You knew about that?"

"I always know when one of you leaves," Mrs Weasley said, running a hand through Harry's hair. "In any case, with both of you missing, I expected that you'd taken yourselves off somewhere more private."

Harry's ears throbbed with embarrassment. 

"In future, the two of you might try to avoid the lovesick glances if you want to be discreet. Budge over."

Harry moved to the other side of the bed after putting the flannel into the basin and sat down, looking at the glass that Mrs Weasley held. The potion inside of it was thick and white and smoking.

 _Not smoking. It looks like breath does in cold air_ , Harry thought, realising that the glass was also radiating coldness. "What's that?"

Mrs Weasley sighed and turned to regard him. "This is a purgative of sorts. It will—hold him still," she interrupted herself as Sebastian's tremors began again. She set her glass to levitating. "I need to make sure that he swallows all of this."

With that, she leant over Sebastian and pried open his mouth while Harry held his legs. The glass emptied its contents slowly into Sebastian's mouth while Mrs Weasley massaged his throat. He choked a bit but got down the potion, and then he went still, his skin growing so cold that it burnt. 

"Let him go and stand away from the bed."

Harry did as he was told, watching in fascinated distress as Sebastian's skin went blue and shiny and his shaking seemed to ease.

"It looks as though he's turning to ice."

"That's the Firechill at work," Mrs Weasley replied, as if this explained everything.

An awful cracking sound shot through the room, and Harry moved towards the bed.

"No!" Mrs Weasley admonished Harry, dashing to his side to stop him. 

"But . . . but his skin's—"

"That's supposed to happen. Wait. I know it's difficult to see him like this, but wait."

The creeping icy blueness reached the end of Sebastian's hair before the lines running through the ice covering him stopped growing. The ice grew thicker, so thick that Sebastian's features were obscured, and then the ice suddenly turned dark red and shattered.

Still clutching Harry, Mrs Weasley Summoned her wand and began Vanishing the shards. "Don't touch the ice. It's poisonous."

"It pulled it out of him?" Harry asked, his eyes never leaving Sebastian's body.

His skin was red and blotchy, and Harry suddenly saw more of it as Mrs Weasley flicked the covers off the bed. 

"Wha—"

"It's nothing I haven't seen before, and he'll never know," Mrs Weasley said, busily beginning to clothe both Sebastian and the bed by magic. "And yes, the Firechill did pull the poison from Sebastian's body, but—"

"How did you know what to do?" Harry asked, as she sheathed her wand.

"That should be obvious," she said, her demeanor suddenly changing from stern to worried as she wrung her hands. "Poor boy."

"You've . . . seen this before."

"Yes, but we're not going to discuss it."

Wondering which of her sons had taken Firebright, Harry asked, "May I sit with him now?"

"Oh, you'll need to do more than that, I'm afraid."

"Pardon?" Harry asked, as Mrs Weasley began Shrinking furniture and cartons. "What are you doing?"

"Removing anything that he might use to hurt you when he wakes up. He'll want to leave, and you can't let him."

"Why not?"

"Because if Sebastian takes Firebright within twenty-four hours of Firechill, he'll die."

~*~

Harry's Anti-Apparation ward crackled into life, and Sebastian lunged at him. "Take it off! Let me _out_ of here!" he shouted, seizing Harry by the collar of his shirt and shaking him. 

Harry brought his knee up between Sebastian's legs, hard. "I can't," he said, keeping his voice calm as Sebastian sucked in a breath and dropped to the floor. "You _know_ why. Don't make me bind you again."

It had been stupid of him to release Sebastian in the first place, Harry realised, but even without the Firebright, Sebastian had charmed him into thinking that he wanted to hold him.

 _I should have listened to Mrs Weasley_ , Harry thought, retrieving the Anti-Apparation bracelet that she'd placed around Sebastian's wrist before leaving Harry to it. 

Getting it back onto Sebastian's wrist, even though he was gasping through the pain Harry had just caused him, was a bit of a struggle, but he managed it. Harry didn't trust his own basic charm having only recently learnt how to cast it in training, and he knew it would take a while for Sebastian to pry the bracelet off again.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping away from Sebastian.

"B—bastard."

"What would you have me do? Let you leave? Let you go kill yourself?"

"'M already dead. Doesn't matter."

"Bollocks!"

Sebastian reached for one of Harry's ankles and clutched it. "Please, Harry. I need—"

"You need," Harry replied, pulling his leg away from Sebastian's grasp, "to wait five more hours. Mrs Weasley says that once the shock to your system has passed, you'll be in a better frame of mind to consider what you're doing."

"What the _fuck_ does she know about it?" Sebastian demanded, sitting up and beginning to paw at the bracelet.

Harry sat down on the bed, keeping his wand at the ready. "Enough, I suppose. She had the Firechill, didn't she?"

"Which of her brats was it? Poor twin-less Georgie?"

 _Shut it_ , Harry thought, trying and failing not to narrow his eyes.

Sebastian pushed himself up off the floor, and Harry tensed. "No, it was her precious baby girl—couldn't deal with the loss of you, I'd imagine."

Harry sighed. _He doesn't mean any of this. He's just baiting you_. "How long have you been taking that shite, anyway?"

"Yes, Ginevra. That has to be it. Abandoned by her hero, the little bitch just couldn't—"

"You're a fine one to be talking about abandoning people," Harry interrupted, electing to bait rather than to hex Sebastian. "Was it worth it?"

Beginning to pace the room, Sebastian asked, "Was _what_ worth it?"

"Choosing your Death Eater friends and Dark magic over my mother—and just what _did_ Mulciber try to do to Mary MacDonald?"

Sebastian didn't miss a step. "You'd have to ask her. Oh, that's right, you can't. She's as dead as Lily is."

Harry's grip tightened on his wand so much that he thought he might snap it, but he pressed on. "You don't have to tell me that. I can hear her dying in my nightmares—thanks for that."

"That wasn't my doing, you little shite!"

"Oh, right, because you're not Severus Snape?" Harry asked, rising. 

Sebastian looked ready to spring at him again, and he wanted room to manoeuvre if he did.

"Do I _look_ like him, you useless twat?"

The insult rolled off of Harry. _He doesn't mean any of this. It's just the—_

"And how typical of you to blame Snape for something someone else did." 

"You took the prophecy to Voldemort. That was as good as murder, and you know it—isn't that why you took refuge in a bottle? Couldn't stand to take your share of the blame?"

Sebastian stopped pacing abruptly and turned towards Harry. "Mothers are overrated, Potter. I did you a favour."

"You . . . I . . . ."

Sebastian laughed. "You'll never make much of an Auror, not that they'll let me drum you out. Clarity, remember?"

Harry clenched his free hand and tried to focus on "Sebastian's" admission while they circled each other. "So you admit it, then? That you're Snape?"

"I admit nothing except a poor choice of fuck."

"She never touched _you_."

"Perhaps if she had, she wouldn't have gone the way of quasi-magiceuticals."

"I meant my mother!" Harry shouted, ignoring the jibe about Ginny. "She wanted Dad, not you, and I don't blame her. At least his friends didn't torture girls with Dark magic! And you just stood by and let Mulciber do it, didn't you? Just like you let Voldemort kill Mum!"

Sebastian leapt.

" _Stupify_!"

Harry's spell missed, and he found himself on the floor, struggling with Sebastian for his wand. Even weakened by his "cure," Sebastian had the height and weight advantage on Harry, and slowly, Harry felt his wand being pried from his fingers. 

"Krea—eacher, now!"

 _Pop!_ _Clang!_

Sebastian went still above him, and Harry shoved him off and looked up to see his house-elf holding a pan, his ears quivering furiously.

"Th—anks," Harry said, feeling Sebastian's head. There was already a huge knot forming on the back of it. "He's still breathing. Good."

"Kreacher has been waiting, Master Harry. Kreacher thinks that Master waited too long to call him."

Harry sighed. "I thought I could handle him by myself."

"Does Master Harry want Kreacher to remove the glamour?"

"The what?"

"This wizard is wearing a glamour, Master Harry."

Harry looked down at Sebastian, stunned. _A glamour? Is that how he managed it?_ "But . . . personal glamours don't work when their casters are unconscious."

"He has a fairy stone, Master, here," Kreacher said, pointing at Sebastian's left forearm, which began to pulse.

Harry had never heard of a fairy stone, and he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to remove Sebastian's glamour given his current state of mind. _What if he can't work the glamour again? That would definitely drive him to—_ "Stop doing that. Leave him alone—please."

"Kreacher will obey even Master Harry's foolish orders."

Harry snorted. "It's all right. I know who he is. His . . . glamour never fooled me," he lied. "Is Mrs Weasley still awake?"

"Yes, Master."

"Don't mention the glamour, but send her up."

_Pop!_

~*~

"It'll hurt, but he'll be fine, Harry," Mrs Weasley said, after she'd examined Sebastian—who was once more secured to the bed. "Are you all right, dear?"

 _I don't know what I am_. "Er, yeah. Fine. I just . . . this is . . . ."

Mrs Weasley patted Harry's arm. "Don't untie him again, and it will be easier. You've only a little over four more hours now."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he still won't want—"

"Sometimes it's enough, Harry, but that's very rare."

"You mean Firechill can cure the addiction?"

"Only rarely, and it would be better to say that it gives some people the help they need to resist their addictions. It didn't quite work that way for—at least if Sebastian takes Firebright again after the purgative period passes, he won't die from it. But you must understand that the reasons Sebastian took it weren't purged with the potion—and you can't do anything to cure him of those."

That made sense to Harry, but it wasn't at all consoling. "How did you explain things?"

"When you didn't come down? Don't worry about that. Everyone knows how contagious dragon pox is."

"You told them that Master Sharpe has the pox?"

"I told them that you both did, and that you'd have to remain quarantined until it was no longer contagious. I'll charm you both green before you come down, and Bill won't say anything."

"What about Hermione? She's never had dragon pox, either, and if we have it—"

"Not to worry, Harry. She's 'quarantined' in the lounge. The boys enjoyed themselves by pestering her through the window most of the day."

Harry laughed. "Arseholes."

"Language," Mrs Weasley admonished him. "In any case, no one knows about Sebastian's true illness, and no one will, unless he elects to tell them."

"I should move him to Grimmauld. Like you said, he's still going to want the Firebright, and—"

"You'll do whatever you think is best, of course, but you need to accept that you can't force the man to behave the way you'd like him to."

"I know that, but . . . but you said you've seen this before. How did you help—"

Mrs Weasley sighed. "It's not my place to say, but he's not stupid, and he saw Sebastian yesterday. I expect he knows what's truly ailing him."

"'He'?"

"And if he wants to and Sebastian is willing to listen, perhaps he'll talk to him."

 _George_ , Harry thought. _It has to be George_. "That would be good, if Sebastian wants to talk to someone, I mean."

"Try to get some rest now. You must be exhausted. I'll stay here until—"

"No, that's okay, Mrs Weasley. I mean, thank you for everything, but he's . . . I'm just not sure he'd be happy if he knew you knew, you know?"

"He doesn't mean them."

"Hmm?"

"Whatever awful things he's said to you. He doesn't mean them."

~*~

Harry stood in the centre of the attic ignoring the burning of his eyes for a long time after Mrs Weasley left. He was exhausted; he'd not slept even while Sebastian had, and the previous two hours had been dreadful. He was still scared because he didn't know what came next.

"This is all kinds of fucked up."

Nursemaiding his Master of Instruction wasn't how he'd imagined spending his hols, and now he was considering kidnapping the man for his own good.

 _Kidnapping Snape. Merlin_.

He didn't doubt it, anymore, not really, but it didn't matter. What was Snape to him? Someone he'd hated, and now that it was a near certainty in his mind that Sebastian Sharpe had been, however real, a construct as far as Snape was concerned, he didn't know where that left _him_.

"I'm so tired of being confused all the sodding time!" he shouted, grabbing fistfuls of his hair in frustration. "Ow!"

Sebastian mumbled something; it sounded like an insult, but it wasn't clear.

"Fuck you," Harry said to him, but Sebastian showed no sign of true consciousness. "Fuck you for not allowing me let you go—and I don't know why I should care. You've always been a nasty piece of work. You've always hated me. Why couldn't you have just left me alone?"

Harry stood over the bed, his fists clenched by his sides, and stared at Sebastian. Even as attractive as he was under glamour, the lines at his eyes and creasing his brows seemed familiar now. They were Snape's lines. 

"You couldn't bring yourself to die completely, is that it? You were too afraid to let go, yourself?"

Sebastian's breath hitched before smoothing out, and Harry recognised the signs of someone pretending to be asleep.

"So why me? What business could you possibly have with me? Why did you want me to know you, even a little? Why couldn't you just go away and be someone new without dragging me into it?"

Sebastian stiffened but didn't open his eyes.

"Why fuck me? I'm not her. I'm not him. I'm no one you want!"

Sebastian didn't move; Harry sighed.

"Fine then, don't say anything. This is ridiculous, though, our situation, and I don't want it anymore. Hell, I don't even want to be an Auror," Harry said, turning his back on the bed.

"What did you say?"

Without turning, Harry repeated, "I don't want to be an Auror. It was just something to . . . it was just the only thing I thought I'd be any good at, but I'm not, am I?"

"Ronald Weasley bests you in all things at the Novitiate and you can't stand it, is that it, Potter? You can't stand not being first?"

Harry spun around to see Sebastian staring at him, and his expression was more a sneer than anything else—Snape's sneer.

"I was never first at school except for Potions in sixth yea—"

"When you cribbed from someone else's text."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! From _your_ textbook! Just admit it! You've admitted worse today. I know who you are, you git."

"Do you."

"Sebastian, stop being so bloody stupid."

"You're sure, are you, that you know who I am?" Sebastian asked, frowning and shaking his head. "What the hell did you hit me with?"

"It was Kreacher, and yeah, I know you're Snape. I know you've used a fairy stone to look like Sharpe. I don't understand how any of that works, and . . . and you know, I'm not sure I give a damn about it anymore."

"Liar."

Harry huffed and crossed his arms. "This is too much. I don't like it. I'm not—"

"You do want to be an Auror. It's all you talked about wanting to be at school. How Minerva despaired over your ever having a normal life."

"Do you think that we could talk about one thing at a time?" Harry demanded, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"The Auror topic was yours."

"I had other questions."

"Ice."

"Yeah, I expect you could use some."

"Arse," Sebastian said, turning his head away.

"You're one to talk. What kind of an idiot takes an illegal potion just to be able to talk to people?"

Sebastian set his jaw.

"And what kind of . . . pervert are you, anyway?"

"Is that what you think?"

Sebastian's voice was almost small, and Harry instantly regretted his words. "I don't know what to think. It's not as if you've made it easy to know—"

"I made it incredibly easy for you. For you! And _this_ is the thanks I get."

"You . . . you've really got your head up your arse, don't you? Did you really expect that giving me everything I ever wanted in a made-up bloke would be enough? Did you?"

"It was working fine before you decided you couldn't let go of Snape."

Harry flushed. "Please tell me that you didn't—Sebastian couldn't have been just for me."

"Well, no, Potter, he was for me. . . . You came later."

"So, not a total perv, then."

Sebastian glared at him.

"What happened to the real Sharpe?"

To Harry's surprise, Sebastian's lower lip began to tremble, but he compressed his mouth and turned away again.

"He's . . . he's dead, isn't he? He never got away from Morecrafte."

"Oh, but he did. He was my student. Brilliant, bright, and broken. He trusted me to keep him safe, and I failed him."

"I was right. You have a saving thing, too."

"Not so you'd notice."

Harry reached for Sebastian's thigh and squeezed it. "What happened?"

"What you heard of Sebastian's history as related to Bill was true, if stretched and . . . incomplete. The boy came to Hogwarts with a tonic, one he ran out of almost at once, and it almost killed him."

"Merlin."

"I analysed it and found that it was Firebright. Given how his masters had . . . used him, it was no surprise to me that they'd also seen fit to keep him 'fresh'."

"So you gave him Firechill?"

"Hell, no, Potter. That would have killed a child. I brewed his 'tonic' and taught him to how to manage its dosing so that the effects wouldn't be noticeable."

"That's horrible!"

"There are more low-dose addicts than you real—"

"You?"

Sebastian frowned at Harry, but he nodded before continuing, "And at the time, it was the only option. If I'd sent him to Poppy, she'd have given him the 'cure' and killed him. It was the only way. Firechill can only be administered to an adult."

"Did his, did Brent know?"

"He did, and before Sebastian left Hogwarts, Brent arrived to help his charge through the cure. Of course, it wasn't a true cure, but the purgative helped him. Brent rode that boy for a year training him, never giving him a moment to consider seeking out another dose, and Sebastian got through it. Curse-breakers train through apprenticeship, so Bill wouldn't have known when Sebastian actually began his, but begin it, he did, and his career went well—until Morecrafte found him again."

"What happened?"

"The bastard wanted supplies, as I told Bill, and Sebastian, who'd never stopped trying to find his mother and sister, gave in. Believing that his family's Secret Keeper was dead, he knew he'd have no other opportunity to find them. But the stress of what he was doing became too much for him, and he began taking Firebright again. Brent suspected this and asked me to speak with him. Sebastian told me everything."

"And then?" Harry asked, leaning forwards.

"And then I became Sebastian. I took his place during that last meeting between him and Morecrafte, and when he arrived, I killed him."

Harry swallowed. "How did you get away with that?"

"It was part of the arrangement between Dumbledore and Brent. The Headmaster felt it unwise to allow someone that powerful in sympathy to Voldemort live, and Brent agreed. It was he who arranged for Billings and his team to take credit for Morecrafte. He didn't wish Sebastian to be involved in any way."

"So he's not dead?"

"No, Sebastian's not dead. He's with his family. I was able to find the Secret Keeper. He'd gone into hiding the moment Morecrafte arrived in his village looking for him."

"Then how is it possible that there are two of you?"

"Because there aren't. Sebastian Sharpe lives. I'm Sebastian. For a while, there were two of us. I'd take his assignments in order to establish myself as his identity, and he'd visit his family. Eventually, he never wanted to leave them, and—"

"He owed you a life debt, so he gave you his life—so that when you were ready to leave yours . . . ."

"Excellent, Potter. You've worked it out."

"So it wasn't for me. I mean, you didn't make yourself over into Sebastian because of—"

"It was the way you thought you were dreaming. The way that even though so much evil had touched you, you remained so fucking pure. It was an impulse."

"That kiss."

"Yes, and then . . . and then I decided that I wanted you for myself."

Harry's heart was hammering. He was relieved and confused and astounded. He didn't know what to think.

"But why the chest? Why did you leave—"

"When I made my will, I realised it would be the only opportunity I had to . . . make things right between us. I thought I'd have time to flee once I'd completed my mission, but things didn't quite work out the way I intended."

"You wanted me to have Mum's things."

"But not mine. I never intended that you should have my journal or letters. Things happened faster than I thought."

"You weren't mocking me."

"Oh, there was mocking. I couldn't help it. You make it easy."

"That's nice. You said you wanted me because I was 'pure', but I'm still mock-worthy?"

"I'm not a nice man, Harry. It's Sebastian who's nice."

"But you are Sebastian now."

"Am I? And does it matter? You know."

"I know that Severus Snape is dead. I assume he'll remain so, no matter what I know."

"That's true, but I'm not charming without my—"

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

"How long were you taking Firebright before Mrs Weasley—"

"Since I was fifteen, in measured doses. Small ones, to get by."

"But you increased them after the attack."

"I did, and when I quit, I . . . ."

"You idiot! You took it all, didn't you?" Harry demanded, rising.

"I don't remember what I did. I . . . only remember that you didn't want me if I took it. I quit for you."

"That can't be the reason."

"Why the hell not?"

"No, I mean, I know you're not lying, but I can't be the reason that you—shite. I can't explain this. I'm not enough of a reason. You'll go back to it if I am."

"Ah. I see. Then let us say that you were the catalyst."

"I . . . all right. Let's. Still, after all that time, I don't think, I mean, I'm worried that—"

"You asked how, remember?"

Harry shook his head quizzically.

"How I became Sebastian."

"You told me how."

"The precise manner in which I did it, not the reason for it."

"I know that. Kreacher says you're using a fairy stone to hold a glamour."

"You don't know what fairy stones truly do, do you?"

"No."

"Watch," Sebastian said, and suddenly, he shrunk, turned green, and slid from his bonds.

"Grapplethorpe!"

"If the goblins could have breached Hogwarts' defences, the history of the castle would have been much different."

"But . . . but he was in the room with me. You knocked while he was!"

"No, I cast a knocking charm and then slipped through the tunnels to get to the door while you were distracted."

Harry squeezed shut his eyes, feeling like an idiot. "That's why he seemed so frail. It had just happened. You were hurt."

"A bezoar and Blood-Replenishing Potion only go so far. That bite hurt like hell, but I wanted to conclude my business with you while you were still at the castle."

"I . . . I have no business being an Auror," Harry said, sitting back down on the bed—and on top of the Anti-Apparation bracelet. "Shite. You're not—"

Grapplethorpe stretched back into Sebastian, and Sebastian said, "No, I'm not leaving, not unless you'd like me to."

"No, Sebastian, I wouldn't like that at all."

"How easily you've taken to that name."

"It's your name," Harry replied, shrugging. "I don't want _him_."

"But . . . I am—"

Harry pressed his fingers to Sebastian's mouth. "The man I'm falling in love with. That's all I need from you—but for Snape, I need a memorial."


	4. Chapter 4

Things were different that New Year's Eve; Harry found himself alone and missing Sebastian, who'd refused to return with him to Grimmauld and had taken himself off to the Novitiate once he'd recovered sufficiently from his "pox" to leave the Burrow; he hadn't been pleased by Harry's talk of a memorial for Snape. Ron hadn't been pleased by Harry's announcement that he wouldn't be continuing his Auror training, which was why Harry wasn't celebrating the turn of the year with the Weasleys. He'd been invited to several parties, one of which had been, much to his surprise, the Malfoys' annual New Year's ball, but nothing could have induced him to celebrate with them—not even Luna, who'd fire-called earlier to ask him to attend.

"We can talk about the memorial," she'd suggested.

Harry sighed and closed the book he'd been reading. Luna's ability to go on with things was impressive—she'd fire-called from the Malfoys', and he couldn't believe she'd actually gone back to the manor—but he had other things to contemplate. He was worried about Sebastian, and he didn't know what he was going to do with himself now that he was no longer planning to be an Auror.

_My marks were good enough that I could do several things, but a Ministry job doesn't appeal, and—_

_Whoosh!_

Harry started and drew his wand as a cloaked figure stepped out of his kitchen fire. "Who the hell—Luna?"

"Happy New Year's!" she exclaimed, stepping aside as another hooded figure _whooshed!_ into the room.

"Malfoy?"

"So, your raging fit of sulks hasn't dulled your wits. Good," Malfoy remarked, his sarcasm undercut by his smile.

Harry found it suspicious. "What are you doing here?"

"Following Lu," Malfoy replied with a shrug, and then he sat down without being asked.

"Harry, it's silly of you to hole up here when so many people want to see you."

Harry raised an eyebrow in irritation as he turned to regard Luna. "You know, when I gave you Floo access, it was just for you, not—"

"For my husband?" Luna interrupted.

"Your _what_?"

"Traditionally, 'congratulations' are in order at such a time."

Harry glared at Malfoy. _Pompous arse._

"Oh, we're not married yet, but we will be. Draco's just asked me to marry him," Luna said, holding out a hand to show Harry the diamond that graced her finger.

Gobsmacked, Harry could only say, "Congratulations."

"Very sincere. I almost believe you," Malfoy replied, while Luna moved around the table to kiss Harry's cheek before sitting down and gesturing him to do the same.

"I wanted you to know first, and well, there's something else you should know."

 _Oh, no. She's pregnant_ , Harry thought, looking at Luna's waistline.

She laughed. "I'm not marrying Draco because of pregnancy."

"What is this you've been reading?" Malfoy asked, picking up Harry's book while Harry looked from Luna to Malfoy and back again. " _Addictive Potions and Their Cures: A Healer's Guide_?"

"You owe me five Galleons," Luna said to Malfoy. Before Harry could ask why, she continued, "I know why the professor's statue disintegrated."

"So do—wait, what?"

"There's already a memorial to him. He created it, himself."

Luna looked so pleased that Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that she was wrong. "Give me that," he snapped at Malfoy, grabbing his book.

"Testy, and not particularly hospitable of you."

Upon Malfoy's words, a full tea service materialised on the table.

"What do you mean, Luna?" Harry asked, as Malfoy began pouring them tea. 

"It's his quarters, Harry. No one's been able to enter them since he died. They're his memorial. They're Hogwarts' way of marking the professor's absence."

"You're not making any sense, Luna. You said that Snape memorialised himself."

"Well, yes, Potter," Malfoy interjected, "they are his quarters—but in death, his wards shouldn't have held."

"That's right," Luna agreed. "The fact that they remain intact is telling. But I think there might be something that we can do about that."

"What, get into his quarters?"

"Move them. To the Ministry's Remembrance Hall—his rooms."

"Do you understand her?" Harry asked, turning to Malfoy.

"I do. If Hogwarts won't allow anyone to breach the wards, we'll have to remove Professor Snape's quarters, well, his laboratory, at the very least, to the Remembrance Hall. The wards won't hold once outside the matrix of Hogwarts as a whole, and—"

"You're both mad. You can't just take part of the castle away."

"Oh, but we can!" Luna exclaimed. "I found the spell while researching building charms, and don't you think it would be a lovely memorial to the professor? To see what he loved most? People could wander through his laboratory and—"

"Gape at a bunch of slimy eyes in jars staring back?"

"Potter, the sort of man the professor was is inherent in his laboratory, in his quarters—people could see that he was disciplined, organised, creative, and—"

"Creative?" Harry asked, as Luna said, "Normal. Just a normal, brave man—if we can move his private quarters, of course, which I'm confident that we can."

"Snape would've hated the idea of people poking their noses around his private quarters."

"Yes, but the man is dead, and illustrating how he lived at Hogwarts would go a long way towards honouring his memory. Think of it: a normal man living an extraordinary life—the exhibition would have explanations about his history."

"It would be a complete history, too," said Luna.

"Including that he killed Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"Thanks to you," she said, "we know why he had to do that, and I think that everyone should know."

"Skeeter did write about it."

"Yes, but if people can see how he lived, if they can understand Professor Snape within the context of his life, then they'll be able to understand why he did what he did much better."

"Luna, what if you get into his moved quarters and discover poisons and torture devices?"

"There won't be those things. I know you know that because Hermione explained to me about Snape's will."

"She did?"

"Yes, and you see, that's why I thought of the building charm. The professor preserved his quarters, himself, didn't he? And Hogwarts is preserving his wards now that he's dead. It's almost as if the castle thinks he's coming back."

"At the very least, it's some acknowledgment by the castle's magics that Snape's should be preserved," Malfoy added.

Harry boggled at the way Malfoy had taken up Luna's odd way of thinking about things so quickly, but he couldn't very well tell them that Snape's wards were holding because Sebastian had never seen fit to remove them. _And I suppose that the battle tunnels will adapt to the loss of the rooms, but—_

"Will you help us, Harry?"

"With what?" he asked Luna.

"Convincing the Board of Governors to allow us to have the rooms for our exhibit, of course."

"To be more precise," Malfoy added, "will you speak to the Minister for us? I can't imagine that the Board would look too kindly upon any request of yours after you saved Slytherin House."

"That's true enough," Harry replied, crossing his arms and staring down his chest. _I should really ask Sebastian about this first, shouldn't I?_ "I'm not saying no, but I'd like to think about it, all right?"

Luna beamed at him. "It would be the perfect wedding present, you know."

Harry fought not to gag as Malfoy reached for Luna's hand and they stared into each other's eyes as if he weren't even there.

~*~

Sebastian actually did sick up when Harry told him about Luna and Malfoy's plans.

"You okay?" he asked, rubbing Sebastian's back lightly in circles.

"Does it . . . look like it?"

Harry sighed and moved from his kneeling stance to a cross-legged position on the cold tile of the bathroom's floor. "They're both mad. I can't think it will work, and—"

"Towel."

Harry Summoned a towel for Sebastian and waited for him to clean himself up before speaking again. "I suppose you could always show up and protest the exhibit."

"Potter, a Death of Dementors couldn't compel me to set foot in the Remembrance Hall," he said, pushing up from the loo and stalking into his bedroom.

Harry followed him. "It wasn't my idea."

"I'm aware of that," Sebastian said, uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring what was left of it into a glass.

Harry sighed.

"Worried that I'm replacing one addiction with another?"

"Er, no?"

"Liar," Sebastian remarked, downing the glass in one long swallow. "I'm worried about it."

"Then don't drink."

"Idiot," Sebastian snapped, throwing the empty bottle into his hearth.

"Fuck you."

"All right."

"What?" Harry asked, although he couldn't deny that the idea of shagging some sense into Sebastian was appealing.

"I've missed you, and tomorrow I have to deal with a bunch of dunderheaded novices."

Harry snorted. "You mean that tomorrow a bunch of terrified novices will have to deal with you."

"As you say." Sebastian began to disrobe. "I need the distraction, so get out so that I can charm my own if you're not going to fuck me."

Harry flushed and stared at his feet. _A distraction. Is that all I am to you?_ "You . . . you don't want me. I've never—"

"It's not a difficult concept. You get hard, you lube up, and then you stick your cock up my arse. Thrust, pull out, repeat."

Harry supposed that Snape had never asked for any of his needs to be met in quite such a way, and he knew that Sebastian certainly wasn't himself, so in spite of his own desires, he said, "I just wanted you to know about Luna and Malfoy's plans. I'll . . . I hope we'll see each other again soon."

Swallowing down the wave of sadness rolling up his throat, Harry made for the door. Nude, Sebastian strode towards it to block his progress. 

"Why won't you fuck me, Potter? I thought we'd established that you find me attractive like this."

"Bitter and angry and feeling violent?"

"I seem to recall that turned you on during one day's training."

"It's not doing anything for me right now. Get out of my way."

"Fickle little shite, aren't you?"

Harry glared at Snape, not Sebastian, and said nothing. _Right._ I'm _the idiot. You're the one who's stuck with yourself._

"Or is it that you're only fit to bottom?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Cut the crap!" Harry shouted, turning his back on Snape and clenching his fists. "You're just looking for something to distract you from what you really want, and I won't be that for you."

"What will you be for me?" Snape asked, his rich voice hot and unmistakable against Harry's ear.

"Change back."

"Into what? Into _him_?"

Harry shuddered as long, thin fingers grasped his cock. They weren't fingers he'd ever felt before, not like this. He jerked and stepped forward.

"I know what you're doing, and since you've killed yourself, you should stop—unless you want to undo the rite and go give Malfoy a piece of your mind."

"What I want is a piece of you."

"Yeah, well, you're not getting me. Not like this," Harry asserted, steeling himself as he spun around.

He caught a flash of black hair and unhealthily pale skin, but just a flash, as Snape renewed his glamour.

"More to your taste?" Sebastian demanded, although Harry could still hear the old menace of Snape's tone lacing his voice.

"I fell in love with Sebastian Sharpe, Curse-Breaker."

"I am Sharpe."

"And you're Snape, which makes all this confusing as hell for both of us, but I won't fuck you now, not when you're so angry, not when you're hating yourself—not when you're hiding."

"Oh, spare me the dramatics. It's you who can't accept me as I am."

"Bollocks! You're not just a hateful, closed-off git! I know that, you bastard! I saw your memories. I know—"

"Nothing!" Sebastian shouted, beginning to stalk about the room and pick up his discarded clothing.

Harry could see that he was trying to hide his face, but Sebastian's shaking shoulders were impossible to ignore. He went to him, stopped him, moved into his arms.

"Stop, just stop, all right?"

His only response was the tightness of Sebastian's embrace. 

"I know that you're scared. You're allowed to be scared."

"No."

"Yes."

"Shut up, Harry. Why won't you fuck me?"

"Because I want to . . . I want more than that."

Sebastian pulled away. "Don't tell me that you want to make love to me," he said, his tone derisive—and oddly hopeful.

Harry placed his hands lightly on Sebastian's cheeks and tip-toed up to gently kiss his mouth. "Yeah, I really do, but I'm not having you when you're so out of sorts that you don't know what you want. It wouldn't be right."

"Don't go."

Harry looked into Sebastian's eyes and saw only confusion and fear, and all he wanted to do was ease those feelings for him—even though he knew that _Severus_ had to do that for himself. Still, he couldn't bring himself to leave him. 

"If I'd been set on leaving, I'd have done it, already. Are you hungry? Are you tired? You look—"

"Like hell, I know."

"Do . . . do you regret the Surrendering?" Harry asked, as he moved to embrace Sebastian again.

With his head resting against his chest, he could feel Sebastian's heart hammering.

"No, I don't. I don't want . . . to be him anymore."

"Then let's," Harry said, looking up into Sebastian's eyes, "do something about that, all right?"

He stiffened. "I won't have my life turned into some overwrought, romanticised display!"

"Right, so our course is clear, yeah?" Harry asked, keeping eye-contact with Sebastian while allowing an idea to rise in his mind.

Harry barely felt the push, and when Sebastian laughed, it was abrupt and choked, but Harry knew that he approved.

"I'll just send for Tissy, shall I? If her butter work is anything to go by, she'll know exactly what to do."

~*~

"Oh, but it's wonderful!" Luna exclaimed. "It's as if the marble melted into place!"

Draco—Harry had forced himself to be that familiar with the arse in recent weeks, but only because he'd accepted that Draco truly loved Luna—scowled and stalked around the near-empty main room. "Where the hell is everything?"

Minerva chuckled. "Well, it seems that Severus didn't preserve his quarters, but the statue, well, oh, my," she said, her laughter overtaking her.

"It's a good likeness," Harry said, as he turned his attention to the glaring, life-sized statue of Snape in the centre of the room. "Truly, it's the sense of billowing robes that makes it work for me."

Hermione, clearly trying not to laugh, declared, "You'll have to hide him from the Firsties. He's rather terrifying like this."

Luna clapped her hands in delight. "This is surely Hogwarts' doing!"

Draco caught Harry's eye and smirked, but his expression was one of astonished annoyance when he turned to Luna. "I'm sorry, Lu, but—"

"Oh, don't be. I think this will work very well."

"I agree. That's a proper statue of him," Hermione said. "Ron won't believe it when he sees."

Harry issued a sigh of relief. He'd hoped that Luna wouldn't be upset by the change in her plans.

"I know just . . . where we . . . can display him," Minerva managed to say, before gesturing everyone out. "Harry, have you considered my offer?" she asked, as Hermione, Luna, and Draco moved ahead of them.

"Er, yeah, but I've made other arrangements."

"Oh?"

Hermione turned around. "Hasn't Harry told you?"

"Told me what?"

"Er, I've asked to become Madam Pomfrey's apprentice, and she's accepted."

"Provided that he begins his studies at St Mungo's so that she doesn't have to teach him the basics," Hermione added. 

Minerva beamed at Harry. "I knew it! I knew that you'd find a way to return to Hogwarts. Poppy owes me five Galleons."

" _Headmistress_ ," Hermione said, sounding vaguely scandalised.

Harry grinned and shook his head, remembering how Draco had lost five Galleons to Luna because of his decision to leave Auror training. "It's all right. Minerva's not the only one who's been betting on my future."

~*~

"It's weird, you know—doesn't feel as if that much time has passed at all—and you were supposed to be my partner."

"I'm still your best mate," Harry said to Ron, smoothing down his lime green robes as Ron picked lint off his bright red ones. 

"These look grand, don't they? Much better than yours."

"They clash with your hair, you berk."

"Poof fashion sense notwithstanding, I like my robes better."

"Git," Harry replied, giving Ron a good-natured punch to the shoulder.

Suddenly, a whistle blew. 

"Shite! Must be off. Sharpe'll have my arse if I'm late to the morning briefing again. Good luck on your Skin-Healing exam!"

"Good luck with field work!" Harry called, watching Ron sprint across the training yard and waiting to catch a glimpse of Sebastian. The shouting alerted him to his presence before Sebastian actually came into view. 

_Poor Ron_ , he thought.

Master Sharpe had undergone something of a personality change in recent months; he was increasingly much less "forgiving," Ron had told him, as they'd toasted Hermione's acceptance into the Spellcraftres' Guild. Of course, "officially," Harry wouldn't have known this about Master Sharpe without Ron's having told him because Harry had been living at Grimmauld during the weekdays, and at Hogwarts on the weekends. Hermione knew that Harry spent most of his nights in Sebastian's quarters at the Novitiate, but Harry had thought it best not to tell Ron about their relationship until he was certain that it was going to take. Ron's feelings about relationships were simple: either one had one, or one didn't.

 _But 'Bastian still isn't as sure as he might be about who he is in ours_ , Harry thought, relief flooding him as Sebastian came into view. _That's a good sign_.

Sebastian was pulling on his Auror robes—over the jumper that Mrs Weasley had given him. It was the first time that Harry had seen Sebastian wear it since he'd removed it at the Burrow. 

_That really is a brilliant orange ess_. 

Harry could have stood there all day, but he had a class to get to, and Healer Heath was more alarming than any Master of Instruction had ever been. He was looking forward to the summer when his training would only be with Poppy; she was strict, but even when annoyed, she didn't make one think she might poison one with a twisted Healing spell.

 _If I didn't know better, I'd say Heath was a relative of Snape's, an older, grumpier relative_ , Harry thought, Disapparating to St Mungo's.

~*~

"Potter, get in here!" Heath demanded, as Harry arrived. "You're almost late."

"Sorry, Healer Heath. Won't happen again."

"Don't be stupid, boy. You're not late, just almost so—and stop standing at attention. Just pay it. You're not training to be an Auror, after all."

Harry tried to relax but found it difficult under his superior's glare.

"You'll have to take your examination this evening, Potter. I need you to make a call."

A "call" was euphemistic for notifying family members that their relative had died, or was about to. Harry swallowed. He'd not yet had to make one. 

"Who was it?"

"Oh, he's not dead yet, but I understand that you know his ward—and the old man's being stubborn about his final matters."

~*~

"Master Brent?" Harry asked softly, as he entered Aldrich Brent's room.

There was a wheeze in response. From the pallor of the man's skin, his breathing, and his general sunken appearance, Harry surmised that he had some sort of wasting disease. Heath hadn't given him the particulars; at this point in their training, she expected all her trainees to be able to make their own diagnoses.

"My name is—"

"Harry Potter," Brent said, beginning to cough.

Harry eased his fit with a non-verbal spell and Summoned a chair. "I understand that you've not notified your next of kin about your condition. I'd be happy to—"

"If you're as good as your reputation," Brent interrupted, speaking slowly, "then I expect you know that I don't have any kin."

"I think that Se—Mr Sharpe would want to know, sir."

Brent coughed; it was clearly dismissive. "Bollocks. The ungrateful sod's not seen me since he found his true family."

The old man looked, underneath the hardness of his expression, almost sad, and Harry wished that Sebastian had told him more about his relationship with Brent. _This isn't right. He shouldn't be left alone to die_. "I'm sure that, er, _Master_ Sharpe would—"

"Stop all that nonsense, boy. I'm well aware of your relationship with the Master."

"Of . . . of course."

"Snape tried, you know. He did his best for my boy, but the 'Bright, it just wouldn't let go of him."

"I, er, I didn't know that, sir."

"It's let go of Snape, I suppose?"

Harry bit his lower lip, not sure what he ought to say. "I think so, yes." 

"Has he taken to drink?"

"No, not really. I mean, drink isn't a problem for him."

"Good, good. He's a strong one."

"Master Brent, there might be a way to bring Sebastian here for you. I could—"

"Needn't . . . bother. No."

"Well, if I'd known that, I wouldn't have wasted my Galleons on this Firewhisky," Sebastian said, entering the room and closing the door.

"Severus, why in Merlin's name are you—"

Brent stopped talking as his coughing overtook him, and Harry reached for his hand and squeezed it before casting his anti-spasm charm again.

"Thank . . . you. Going to . . . must rest for a bit. Don't drink . . . without . . . ."

Harry turned to Sebastian, his expression curious.

"I've known that he was ill for some time. One of the mediwizards has been updating me about his condition."

"Ah," said Harry, watching Sebastian's veiled expression as he sat down in a chair on the other side of Brent's bed. "You never said that . . . Sebastian had cut ties with Brent." 

Harry's Sebastian looked down at his hands. 

"That's what you meant by your having failed him, isn't it? That he took up the Firebright again?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Sebastian sighed and began to fidget, eventually stopping it by taking hold of Brent's other hand. "I tried to help him, but Sharpe was long past saving in that regard. And he couldn't stand the thought of Brent seeing him . . . sick, so I've . . . looked out for him as much as he'd allow."

 _And not_ , Harry told himself, _because Brent knows your secret_. "So, we haven't spoken about it in a while, not since you've been going to Percy's group, but are you feeling . . . well?"

"Oh, I'm tempted—daily—but I have," Sebastian said, looking up at Harry, "other things that I want more. I don't think that Sharpe ever truly allowed himself to want anything other than . . . . Hell, after what he went through, there was only one thing that he trusted himself to want."

"You were never responsible for him, not with regard to the Firebright, you know."

"So Percy keeps telling me."

"Percy?" Harry asked, surprised by the idea that Sebastian might have told him about his secret.

"He doesn't know everything, of course, just that I did some work with the Order during the war. That's enough truth to put my life into the sort of context required to be understandable."

"Ah, all right, then."

"Percy's been a good teacher in some respects. His experience mirrored mine to some degree."

"Should you be telling me this?"

"You're family, and he's told me that I may."

"All right. How, then? Did his experience mirror yours, I mean?"

"You didn't think that Percy disowned his family purely out of a desire to succeed, did you?"

"Er, yeah."

Sebastian snorted. "Dumbledore placed people everywhere."

"Merlin, and he couldn't speak of it. The guilt he must have felt . . . ."

"And the isolation. Percy understands me a great deal more than he knows, and . . . and he's been teaching me how not to lose myself in emotional withdrawal."

"He sounds like a Muggle head doctor, now—not that there's anything wrong with that," Harry added quickly.

The shadow of a smile crossed Sebastian's face but passed quickly. "I've had many teachers in my life, but from Sharpe, I learnt how to hide. He did it almost every day of his life. He had to, and once he didn't have to any longer, he couldn't break the habit of doing it. His affected persona hid more despair and fear than I have ever known, and I was so bound up in my own bitterness when I might have been helping him that I failed to teach him anything that might have saved him."

Harry understood Sebastian's saving people thing; they had it in common. "Well, what about his family? His mother and sister? I would have thought that their reunion—"

"Family isn't all Weasley-like. It's not all instant acceptance and jumpers and love. Even if they haven't turned him away, Sebastian's family are afraid of him."

"How do you know that?"

"I went to see him, to tell him about Brent."

"Ah."

"His family were happy to see him, initially, and he tried to be a good son, a good brother, but their fear . . . he said that he could smell it."

Harry felt suddenly angry. "That's the guilt. They left him. His mother _left_ him to that man."

"To those monsters," Sebastian murmured, "yes."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I didn't wish to upset you anymore than I already had. Because . . . because of my own guilt."

Harry sighed; he didn't know what to say in the face of _Severus'_ guilt. "I wish that Master Brent could see Sharpe again. He must feel so alone."

"I wish the same, but Brent's not alone. He has us."

"Yes."

"I've asked Healer Heath to give you charge of 'my' guardian. It's unorthodox, but you've had enough training to be able to manage his palliative care, and . . . ."

"And?"

"And I don't think he could possibly be in better hands than yours."

Harry's eyes burnt with unshed tears at this display of Sebastian's trust in him. 

"I know you'll be good to him, as patient as you've been with me."

"Well, of course I've been patient with you. I . . . I love you."

Harry wondered if he should have said as much as Sebastian turned away to stare at Brent.

"I thought, once I'd . . . chosen you, that it would be I who kept teaching you."

"How to protect myself?" Harry asked.

Sebastian nodded. "But it's you who've taught me more."

Harry frowned. "I don't understand."

"About forgiveness, compassion—those 'tender' feelings I used to believe made one weak."

"I think you're giving me far too much credit."

"I don't. My life, I would not be enjoying it half so much as I do if not for you. You saved me, Harry."

"Sebastian, I—"

"No, please, let me finish. I can't think when I might ever say this to you again."

Harry nodded as Sebastian turned his gaze back to him. "No matter what's happened to you, you've always managed to avoid becoming . . . soiled by it."

"The 'pure' thing, again?"

"Always. It used to sicken me, really, but now . . . . You know that I love you, don't you?"

 _Oh_ , Harry thought, nodding because he didn't trust himself to speak.

"You know that I love only you?"

"Just me, yeah, I . . . I know," Harry whispered, reaching across the bed for Sebastian's hand.

Sebastian took it and squeezed, but then he abruptly stood up. 

"I've duties to which to attend, but I'll return tonight."

"Visiting hours end at eight."

"I'll be here by midnight."

Harry snorted. "I'll be waiting. I won't leave Master Brent alone, I promise."

"Thank you, Harry. He's . . . a good man."

 _He's you_ , Harry thought, as Sebastian left them. _He's who you might have been if you hadn't died and had the chance to start over—and you think of him like a father, even if you couldn't bring yourself to tell me that._

The fear that must drive such silence overwhelmed Harry, and his eyes welled. He blinked, and a single tear slid down his face.

 _For you, Severus_.

He blinked again; another tear fell.

 _For you, Aldrich Brent_.

And then Harry covered his eyes and wept a silent storm of tears for the Sebastian Sharpe he'd never known—it wasn't death that he was mourning then, he realised, but the absence of love and the presence of so much loneliness in the lives of these lost men.

 _Things will be different for my Sebastian_ , he thought, rubbing his sleeve over his wet eyes. _I'll never let him be alone again_.

~*~

"There's something we need to do together," Harry said to Sebastian, as they left Brent sleeping comfortably under a charm and in the care of a mediwizard later that night. "Something for which we're both ready, I think."

"Oh?"

"Do you trust me?"

"I do."

Smiling, Harry took Sebastian's arm and Disapparated from the corridor.

~*~

Sebastian frowned at the plaque affixed to Snape's statue. "It's still far too romanticised a description of his deeds."

"'His'?" Harry asked, sliding his hand into Sebastian's.

Sebastian merely nodded.

"Yeah, well, people will have their heroes, won't they?"

"Why did you bring us here?"

"To say goodbye to him—so that when . . . when I take you home, when I take _you_ , you'll know exactly whom it is I'm loving."

" _Harry_."

Sebastian's embrace was so strong that it pressed all the air out of Harry's lungs, but Harry didn't care; he wanted to feel the depth of Sebastian's passion for him. He needed to feel it. It was his.

"You . . . you truly are mine now," Sebastian said, his voice hoarse, as he relaxed his hold upon Harry without letting him go. "You really want me."

The wonder in Sebastian's voice provoked Harry to do something that he hadn't planned; dropping to his knee and pulling Sebastian down with him, he said, "I really want you, 'Bastian. I want you to be my family. Will you—"

" _Yes_."

~*~

"No, I do not think it's too early," Brent was saying to the harried-looking mediwizard upon Harry and Sebastian's return. He looked up and his eyes narrowed as he took in their clasped hands. "But _that_ may just be too much happiness for a dying man to take."

"You seem in high spirits," Harry said, running his wand over Brent.

Sebastian picked up the half-empty Firewhisky bottle. "I see that you didn't wait for _me_."

"No time left for waiting. Pour one for yourself and pass the bottle."

Harry was about to sit down when he noticed a package in the chair. "What's this? Have you had visitors?"

"That's for h—him," Brent wheezed. "Goblin brought it. Bad form, letting them spy out your movements," he said to Sebastian.

"Not when by request."

"Oh?" Harry and Brent both asked.

Sebastian, who'd opened the package and pulled out a small card, passed it to Harry, who read:

> _So that you know it is done, and that I have nothing left of yours, please accept this memory with my compliments._

Harry turned to Sebastian, his eyebrows raised, but before Sebastian could speak, Brent did.

"Go on. A Pensieve, is it?" he asked, peering down at the open box in Sebastian's lap and toasting them with his bottle. "I've company enough right here."

"I don't need to see—"

"It's all right, Harry. I'm sure that I know what this is, and there's no reason that you shouldn't see it."

~*~

From behind one of the columns in the courtyard given over to Snape's statue, one goblin turned to the other and said, "That should be confirmation enough of his approval even for you, Grapplethorpe."

Harry flushed as he watched Grapplethorpe cough lightly and turn away from Sebastian and himself. Having Severus after he'd accepted him had seemed like an excellent idea at the time, but at the time, he'd given no thought to how public they'd been.

"So it would seem, Thorntwister. Soon, I will close this case."

"And then retire," the younger goblin said, with no little eagerness. "Of course, I still don't understand how you could have given over your duties so easily."

"Mr Snape was quite clear in his instructions to me. No matter the contents of his will, it was he who desired to see to his own wishes with regard to any memorials."

"But you allowed him to use your _form_."

"He paid well, and it was my business to accept that payment."

"Why then did you bring us here?"

"Because it is right and respectful that one should mark the passing of a client. Have you learnt nothing from me?"

"He looks 'lively' enough to me—so unseemly!"

"And yet you continue to watch," Grapplethorpe replied mildly, shaking his head at Thorntwister.

"Only to learn the affairs of wizards. I still don't understand this rite of theirs. When a goblin dies, he dies, and he _remains_ dead."

"Goblins aren't wizards. I suggest that you remember that going forward. Do not try to understand them. Take their money, see to their wishes, and be grateful that our way is the easier one."

Harry and Sebastian both snorted at that.

"What are you doing?" Thorntwister asked.

"Patience," Grapplethorpe replied, opening the casket that he held.

Thorntwister's expression became almost comically amazed as Harry and Sebastian's cries grew louder, and Harry's mortification was lessened by curiosity when a glowing, ragged bit of stone appeared in the box.

"A partial fairy stone! That is valuable, indeed, but where is the rest of it?"

"This is the part that held Mr Snape's glamour, and this," Grapplethorpe said, as another, smaller stone fragment appeared in the casket, "was the part that held mine. What's left in my client is all the glamour that he'll ever need again."

Harry turned to regard Sebastian, who smiled at him. 

Turning back to the goblins, Harry saw how Thorntwister scowled as Grapplethorpe intoned, "On this day, let Severus Tobias Snape truly rest in peace as a worthy client who always paid up front and in gold."

"Superstitious wizarding nonsense, that—hells! Why did you hit me?"

Grapplethorpe lowered his cane. "The wishes of a client are to be respected in every way, no matter that you do not understand them. I have taught you this, but perhaps, not so well as I should have. I find myself rethinking my retirement. An apprenticeship of thirty years may not have been sufficient for one so thick as you. Surely the idea that a wizard might wish to have someone mourn him is not so fantastical to you?"

 _Oh, Sebastian_ , Harry thought, pressing against him to wrap his arm around his waist.

"I . . . I acted rashly, disrespectfully. I beg your apology, Father."

Grapplethorpe chuckled. "Take the casket, boy, I'm too old to carry such a weight. And do not concern yourself about your lapse—but do not repeat it."

"Yes, sir."

"Mark this day, boy."

"For the wizard?" Thorntwister asked, thinly veiled disgust larding his tone.

"No, my son, for yourself. I shall retire, and today is the first day of the rest of your career."

~*~

The memory became cloudy, and then dispersed, and Harry felt himself floating upwards and out of the Pensieve. It was a relief to find Brent sleeping again, although he suspected that he might be feigning it.

"Well," Sebastian whispered, moving Brent's bottle to the table by the bed, "that's done, then."

"You planned for more than you let on."

"Harry, I—"

"You said it was an impulse of yours, kissing me in Snape's rooms."

"I did say that, yes." Sebastian's expression was smug. "I can assure you that whatever plans I might have made did not include your fucking me into his memorial."

Harry's cock twitched at the memory. "I think I'd like to get a better look at that, at us, I mean—but I want you to be doing the fucking next time." He glanced quickly at Brent and then back to Sebastian. "If that's all right?"

"How you could ever have fancied Draco when you so clearly desire someone more 'assertive' is beyond me."

Harry laughed at the irony. _We've only just made our goodbyes to Snape and here we are going on as if—_ "But you can accept that, can't you?"

Heat flared behind Sebastian's eyes. "Fucking you is always my pleasure, Harry."

They were leaning towards one another for a kiss when Brent coughed. "Have a little respect for the dying, you hounds—and pass me that bottle. I don't plan to meet Death sober."

There was nothing of sadness in Sebastian's voice as he replied, "I expect that Death's been drinking for days in expectation of meeting you, old man."

"That's as it should be, boy. That sack of bones will mark it well, the day he comes for me."

~*~

On the day after the fifth anniversary of Voldemort's demise, Harry woke up to the familiar sound of light snoring. He rolled over and watched Sebastian sleep, lightly tracing the laugh lines on his face in the air above them until he couldn't help himself and bent down to kiss his mouth.

"Mmrph, mm. Good morning, Healer Potter."

"It will be a much better morning in a moment, Master Potter," Harry promised, reaching down to fondle Sebastian's cock through the bedclothes. 

"Mmm," Sebastian encouraged, thrusting upwards into Harry's hand. "Did you take your potion?"

"At three in the morning, yes, and I maintain that you still brew things to taste as disgusting as possible."

Sebastian smirked. "Lies."

"Right," Harry said, before sucking Sebastian's lower lip into his mouth and beginning to stroke him.

Sebastian broke their embrace too soon. "Oh, that's goo—you have to stop that or I won't last."

"Bollocks."

"Exactly."

"I know how long you'll last. Why d'you think I woke you up so early?"

Sebastian pulled the covers off them and rolled Harry over onto his back. "So that we could break this bed again."

"Kreacher's becoming testy about that. The other elves tease him," Harry said, drawing his hands up Sebastian's back.

"Sod them. This is our day."

Harry's hands stilled. "Our fathers' day?"

Sebastian's warm brown eyes met his. "Don't be nervous. It'll work. It's my potion, isn't it?"

Reassured, Harry brought one leg up over Sebastian's arse to pull his body closer. "Want this. Want you."

Sebastian shivered, and against Harry's lips, he whispered, "Are you certain?"

"I've never been more sure of anything—I've even thought of a brilliant name for him."

"Have you?" Sebastian asked, grinding himself against Harry.

"Fuck now, talk later." 

"Tell me now," Sebastian ordered, shifting his position.

Harry gasped as Sebastian pushed his arms up over his head and pressed them into the mattress. "Hard to—"

"I . . . know."

"Hard to talk when you're _biting_ melikethat!"

"Love your throat . . . your skin . . . you."

Harry drew his other leg up over Sebastian's back and clamped them together, bucking his hips. "Love you, but . . . please, I nee— _oh_."

"As soon as . . . you tell me this . . . brilliant name . . . you've selected for . . . our son," Sebastian insisted, in between licking and nibbling his way up Harry's neck.

"Al—ldrich Se—everus."

"Harry," Sebastian whispered, going still, "that's an aw—"

"No, it isn't," Harry interrupted, writhing a bit in frustration. "It's so his friends'll call him 'Asp' and he'll _have_ to Sort Slytherin."

Sebastian dipped his head and smiled against Harry's neck. "Perhaps that's not such an awful name, then, but what of our daughter's name?"

Harry grinned and struggled free of Sebastian's grip before flipping him over and straddling him. "Too much talking," he declared, brushing his arse over the head of Sebastian's cock. "Want to feel you. I'm _ready_."

Sebastian groaned as Harry sank down upon his cock and began to ride him. "Promise me, promise me that . . . _promise_ me that things . . . will be different for . . . them."

Harry locked eyes with Sebastian and allowed his mind to fill with promise. "See them. See what I see."

The brush against his mind was tentative at first, but then it grew stronger as the trepidation left Sebastian's eyes and he whispered, "Laughing. You see them laughing—and beautiful."

"They'll be ours. They'll have to be beautiful," Harry promised, beginning to rock his hips. "Beautiful . . . and . . . happy . . . and . . . ours."

"Our . . . children. . . . Our . . . _family_ ," Sebastian agreed, speeding his thrusts so that both of them lost themselves to their movement . . . until—

_Crack!_

The collapse of the too-often repaired bed caused Harry to fall forward onto Sebastian's chest, and holding him tightly, all he could do was gasp for enough breath to laugh as the bed-curtain-muffled sounds of a disgruntled house-elf reached his ears—but he stopped laughing abruptly when he heard the _Snick!_

Looking up above the broken headboard at the clock that hung there, he found himself blinking back tears at the sight of the hand for himself: "Pregnant," it read.

"Told you it would work."

"Your potion, of course."

"No, Harry," Sebastian murmured, shifting so that he could meet his eyes. 

Harry could feel him trembling.

"My _plan_."

And that was an admission, Harry knew, a confession, and one that wasn't Sebastian's. 

_Oh, Severus_.

It didn't surprise Harry to discover that even now, Severus was frightened that his new life might fall apart, no matter what he'd surrendered to create it. It didn't surprise him to learn the depth of Severus' will, either, and there was nothing creepy about it, he decided, not when he knew that Severus had chosen to die so that he could learn how to live again.

 _And so that he could become a man I could love_ , Harry thought, reaching up to caress his husband's face. 

It didn't matter why the man loved him, only that he did: only a fool would refuse to accept so brave a love.

"So," Harry said, resolving never to become so foolish, "what you're saying is that you _are_ a perv?"

Sebastian barked out a laugh. "Aren't you going to ask how long? Or when? Or . . . anything?"

"Mmm," Harry replied, grinning and thrusting his hips against Sebastian. "I know how long, and I think as soon as possible would be brilliant—and with you, with _you_ , I know that I can have everything."


End file.
